Harvest Home

27

I awoke from nightmare to see the fragments pieced together, then realized they were the cracks and seams of a ceiling. I was in a strange bed, in a room unfamiliar to me. My jacket was on the back of a chair, my shoes beside it. A blanket had been drawn over me. The window shades were down. My head throbbed, and when I put my hand to the back of my skull I felt pain. I looked at my watch: it had stopped at ten minutes past five-a.m. or p.m.? I leaned from the bed and pulled the shade up: the sun was high.

I had come to in a bedroom at Penance House. I was looking out at an oblique angle toward the church. The hands of the church clock read twenty minutes to twelve. Men were working on the Common, some using rakes while others shoveled burned debris onto a giant chicken-wire frame. The sifted ashes were being scooped into burlap sacks and loaded onto the back of a truck. Soon all that was left to mark the night’s events was a giant scorched circle on the grass.

I fell weakly back against the pillow, my stomach churning as the picture of the previous night reformed itself in my memory, the carnage of the fire, the scarecrow that had not been a scarecrow. I squeezed my eyes shut, grimaced. It wasn’t possible; I had imagined it. There had been no face, only a straw head. I could make myself believe it if I tried. I tried. Could not. The face remained a face-Worthy Pettinger’s face. A conspiracy of cremation.

I looked through the window again. Men were taking down the harvest symbols from the chimneys and eaves. Others had appeared at points around the Common, casually loitering. I saw no women, no children, no animals. No cars went by. The men appeared to be waiting, smoking their pipes and looking at the burned circle.

I heard the sound of a motor, and Justin Hooke’s El Camino passed below the window, went around the Common, and pulled up at the curb in front of the church. Justin helped Sophie out, and she threw a furtive glance up at the clock on the steeple. When they came close to the circle, they halted. Justin released her arm and he looked up at the clock. It was five minutes to twelve.

More men had appeared, solitary, silent, stationing themselves beside the trees or the lampposts. Mr. Buxley came out on the church steps. He looked around, went back inside. Justin was talking to Sophie. Listening, she lowered her brow and leaned it against his chest. He shook his head, made an angry gesture, and raised her chin to him. She tried to leave, and he seized her hand, forcing her to listen. She drew away and flung herself down on the ground.

Justin glanced at a group of men, then quickly knelt and brought her to her feet. He lifted her face again, gently, and spoke some more words. She seemed acquiescent as he reached for her hand and began to lead her toward the circle. She halted once more, staring at the blackened earth, glancing indecisively at the clock and back again. Finally, she snatched her hand away and began to run. Justin took three or four steps after her, then stopped. The lounging men became more attentive, watching the departing figure as it disappeared up Main Street.

The steeple bell began striking the hour. When the final stroke rang, Justin stepped into the circle, under trees whose autumn leaves seemed to have hemorrhaged, seeping blood. The men watched him, never speaking but closely observant as he moved toward the center. Amys Penrose came through the vestibule doors and down the steps. He did not look at the figure in the ring, but rounded the Common, crossed the roadway, and disappeared beneath my window.

I pulled the blanket off, swung my feet to the floor, and went into the adjoining bathroom to wash my face. I looked dirty and disheveled, and in need of a shave. My head hurt worse than before as I bent over the basin. I soaked the washcloth and laid it against the swelling. The bedroom door opened and Amys’s face appeared behind me in the mirror.

“Some bump.”

Holding the cloth to the back of my head, I went and sat on the edge of the bed.

“How did I get here?”

“They brought you. Merle Penrose and Morgan Thomas.”

They had slugged me, then carried me to bed. “Just goes to show you, nobody’s all bad.”

Amys eyed me. “Nice bed?”

“Comfortable enough. Were you there last night?”

“Hell, no. For that damn foolishness? Was over t’the picture show. When I came back, they was just lugging you up on the church steps. I told ‘em to bring you here.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“They had their Kindlin’ Night.”

“And tonight they’ll have their Harvest Home. Amys, listen to me-” He turned away; he knew what I was going to say. I told him about Jack’s discovery in the hollow tree, about his finding and taking Roger’s ring. Irene Tatum had never found a body in the river; the coffin had been weighted with a sack of corn and a fake marker put up over her grave.

“She wasn’t pretty, Amys. Not when she came back.”

He nodded dumbly. “I know. I seen her.”

“You-?”

“I seen her. The night Roger rode her back across the bridge on his horse. I’d been hidin’ in Irene’s orchard every night, waitin’. I knew one of ‘em was bound to cross the river. He rode her into the orchard. Her face was done up in some sort of scarf-he took it off. When he saw what had happened to her, he left her there. She swore she’d come to Harvest Home. Roger told the Widow, and she rode out and ordered Gracie not to come. But I knew she would. She was bound to. Bound to-even though she knew they’d kill her.”

“You knew.”

He shrugged simply. “Everybody knew. Gracie’s tragedy was that she fell in love with Roger. No girl ought to do that when she’s Corn Maiden-not with the Harvest Lord.”

“Then that must be Sophie Hooke’s tragedy, too. Why did you lie to me and say that Mrs. Zalmon had driven Worthy Pettinger away?”

“They told me to. Old Deming and the elders, they-” Tears came to his eyes. “They knew we was friends-”

“Are we friends?”

“Yes, sir.” He turned to me, squinting against the light, his eyes streaming. “I know what you’re thinkin’, but listen to me. I’ve prett’ near lived my life out now, and I done just about what I wanted to, but when you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn one thing-to keep your nose out of what don’t concern you. I don’t meddle with folks’ doin’s, and they don’t meddle with mine. I don’t know what happened last night. And if you do-or if you think you do-I wouldn’t go around spoutin’ off about it. Folks can get mighty cranky hereabouts.”

I glanced out the window at the watchers: the farmers watching Justin standing immobile in the circle. Not a woman in sight, except for Missy Penrose.

“What will she do?” I asked, indicating Missy, “now that the sheep are put to fold?”

“She’ll wait. Everyone will wait.”

“For what?”

“Hoping Jim Minerva will choose a-”

“Corn Maiden.”

“Ayuh.”

“Who will it be?”

“Someone-young.’’

He was sounding a warning; my wits, dulled from the night before, were slow to take it in. I stared at him.

Then: “Kate?”

“The Widow wants new blood. That’s why she got you the house. Villagers didn’t want outsiders here. They had a meetin’. The Widow says yes, they should let you come. She saw you the first day you came here.”

I remembered the Polaroid photograph of Kate that I had written our number on, the Widow’s immediate interest. More conspiracy. I seized Amys’s wrist, held him. “Amys, what’s going to happen at Harvest Home?”

“What no man may know nor woman tell.”

“You tell me.” He tried to pull away; I tightened my grip. Amys looked down at Justin, the focus of all eyes.

“He won’t tell, neither. Not before he goes, not when he comes back.” With his free hand, he released my fingers from his wrist and stepped away. I remained at the window, staring down at the figure on the Common, waiting at the center of the ring.

The enigma. The baffling mystery that still eluded me.

Amys was lying; he knew. They all knew; all but me. And though the Harvest Lord stood at the exact center of the circle, he did not stand alone; there was another with him, and though I did not know Her, I knew now who She was.

I vowed war on Her. I vowed death and destruction. New blood-for Her? If it came to that, I would set a torch to every barn in the village, to every field that grew a single stalk of corn. I would pollute the earth with some poisonous substance that would kill Her. I would rust the blade of the plowshare, I would break the handles. I would make a wilderness of briars and weeds. No matter how fair it flowered, no furrow or hill or meadow would not feel my hand, to lay low the spirit of the holy Mother-Earth. I cursed and damned Her, and I swore that She would not win against me.

Amys was looking at me. Had he read my thoughts? “Son, there’s only two ringin’s today. I just done the first. The second’s at moonrise. That’s a special ringin’-curfew, you might call it. When you hear that bell, you make sure you’re to home.” He touched his fingers to my arm. “And son,” he added, almost an afterthought, “make sure you stay there.”

I intended nothing of the kind. “Well,” I said, “pray for rain.”

“Why’s that?”

“The farmers need it.”

I paced the rug in Robert Dodd’s sun porch, my hand trembling as I drank a Scotch-and-soda. Though he had asked me several times to sit, I could not. The talking-book machine remained silent, the arm lifted from the record. Immobile in his chair, head slumped, the Professor listened to me, his dark glasses shielding his sightlessness.

I had come home to find my house empty. The station wagon was gone, so were Beth and Kate. There was no note, no communication of any kind. None of Beth’s clothes were missing, or Kate’s either. I was out of my mind with worry. Robert had told me that Maggie had driven down to the city, and that perhaps Beth and Kate had gone with her. Still, this didn’t explain the station wagon’s not being in the garage.

In my agitated state, I found it difficult to collect my thoughts. As coherently as I was able, I repeated the story of last night’s events, going back to the afternoon, to the Hookes’ farm, then to the river, meeting Tamar-I had got to that part of the story before I realized it, tried to explain my way out again: “It’s not what you think. I didn’t- She wanted it- she-” I stopped, then went on. The field had been empty, the scarecrow was taken down; then there was another scarecrow. The Widow had long before showed us the things in her parlor, the Spanish-American War tunic Jack Stump had sold her, the cocked hat, the boots. A scarecrow where there had been none. The pigs going berserk at the smell of blood. They had taken Worthy from the post office, and killed him. Then the scarecrow was put on the bonfire.

“They murdered him. And they cut off Jack Stump’s tongue.”

Robert shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

“No? I’m telling you! And they killed Gracie Everdeen!”

“Calm down, my boy. You’re in an overwrought state. Grace Everdeen killed herself. It’s why she was not permitted burial in our churchyard.”

“She was murdered, and they wouldn’t bury her because of whatever it was she did. At Harvest Home. Out there-in Soakes’s Lonesome. Fourteen years ago tonight!”

“Yes. Tonight. I’ve been sitting here this morning thinking, Tonight is Harvest Home.”

“I’m going.”

“Going where?”

“There. To the woods. For Harvest Home.” Angrily I put my glass down and started from the room.

“Ned-wait!” Robert’s voice rose sharply. “If you won’t sit down, stand there and let me tell you one or two things that might interest you. Are you familiar with what are commonly referred to as the Greek Mysteries? The Eleusinian Mysteries, for example?”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“Back in the old days there was a cult of women who worshiped a goddess called Demeter. She was the earth goddess.”

“The Mother-?”

“In one of her varying forms. But these so-called mysteries were celebrated annually, and the secret of what occurred when those Greek women got together to worship in their grove was so well guarded that to this day scholars don’t really know what went on. But the important thing is that in each case where the secret was breached, it resulted in death.

“Those women didn’t want anyone watching them while they were doing what they deemed necessary, or what they believed in. This is a very serious thing, as it is with any sort of fanaticism. And their fanaticism stemmed from their belief in a deity of grain. And the god-or, in this instance, goddess- who provided it was revered.”

“Worshiped.”

He nodded. “Agricultural societies in certain periods of history have been known to be especially primitive and savage, and also particularly secretive. And our agricultural ladies here in Cornwall who happen to believe as they do don’t want any men knowing what their particular ‘mysteries’ are all about. So no one’s ever seen ‘em. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“I’m going to find out.” The conviction in my voice produced a long silence in Robert.

“If you go,” he said finally, “you’ll live to regret it-if you live.”

“But I’ll go!”

“You’ll never get there. They’ll have guards posted. Along the road-the bridge, by the river. No one goes to the woods tonight, except the women. No Soakeses, no one.”

“I go!”

He sighed wearily. “Let me tell you one more thing. Fourteen years ago, there was another man. He was curious, too. He tried to find out.”

“Did he?”

“Before the mystery had even begun, he was discovered- and he suffered grievously. I beg you, don’t go!”

“If this ‘he’ you’re talking about got caught, he was a fool.”

“You are the fool.”

“Everybody seems to think so. Why do you?”

I waited for him to continue, sensed that he had more to say. Sensed, also that in some way he, too, was afraid, was constrained not to go further. The room had fallen silent, and I suddenly knew I was waiting for something. Something that had nothing to do with what we were talking about; something from outside, beyond us. Something had happened-or was about to, I couldn’t tell which. In a second more, I knew what it was.

Distantly, the church bell began a slow, solemn peal. Two tollings, Amys had said. This one was unscheduled; yet I had known it was to come. I counted, trying to remember what Amys had told me about the sequence of bells.

“Someone has died,” Robert said. We listened. The bell rang three times, three again, three again.

“Thrice times thrice. A woman.” Robert rose. “Have you got your car? Drive me to the church.”

The bell continued tolling as we drove to the Common, and when we arrived at the north end of Main Street people were hurrying from all directions, crowding around the steps. On the top one stood the Widow Fortune, her white cap hidden by a dark shawl as she angrily gesticulated at Amys Penrose, who was pulling on the bell rope. A man ran up the steps and listened as the old woman spoke, then shouted to the crowd: “Amys oughtn’t to be ringin’.”

I drove to the curb and helped Robert onto the sidewalk, looking up at the Widow, who was shading her eyes against the sun, peering up the street we had just driven down. Soon I saw a vehicle making slow progress under the trees, and the crowd shifted as it approached, forming two lines outward from the church steps to the roadway where Justin’s El Camino halted. He got out, lowered the tailgate, and came bearing his burden between the silent lines, moving up the steps, then bending before the Widow and placing at her feet the dead body of Sophie Hooke.

The Widow had not moved, but remained where she was, looking down at the still form, an enigmatic expression on her face. “What did she do?” I heard a voice asking. The Widow made a slight movement, acknowledging the question but offering no answer. Mr. Buxley stepped forward.

“She hanged herself.” He clamped his mouth in a grim line, then continued. There would be no reading from his Book for the repose of Sophie’s soul, nor would she be buried in the churchyard. She would rest outside the iron fence, and I pictured the real grave beside Gracie Everdeen’s false one.

I watched the faces around me as they heard the pronouncement. Sally Pounder’s mouth opened and closed in blank perplexity; Betsey Cox scowled and bit her thumb; Tamar Penrose, standing behind Missy, held herself in a breathless attitude of waiting, a kind of exultation on her face, expectant, transfixed.

Nowhere did I hear anyone say “Poor Sophie,” nor indeed did anyone appear to be struck by the tragedy, or even by the fact of her death-only that she was dead now, today.

“Of all days,” said one.

“Not a thought for anyone else,” said another.

“Amys shouldn’t have rung,” said a third. “Dead by her own hand.”

Justin Hooke stood stolidly, looking at the Widow as if for guidance, but saying nothing.

“Should have known better-” a third put in.

“A sinner’s heart!” It was the Widow, who had lifted her head and begun speaking. Though she did not shout, her voice reached all quarters of the assembled crowd. “She has done away with herself. She has done it in spite and in malice. She has lived a foolish child and she has died one. I brought her into this world with these hands, and would that I had sent her from it with the same. Mr. Buxley is right-she will find no resting place in our churchyard. She is bane.”

“What will happen?” Sally Pounder called out.

“Yes, what will happen now?” It was Margie, the beauty parlor operator. “Will there be a Harvest Home?”

The Widow’s features drew together. “Don’t talk nonsense, girl, of course there’ll be a Harvest Home. It’s the seventh year-got to be!”

“But who’ll be the Corn Maiden?”

“Never doubt the Corn Maiden will wear her crown tonight.” Her voice was strong and angry. “But it’s late. There’s little enough time. Missy, come up. Tamar, send her to me.”

As the child went up, I pushed through the throng, mounting step by step until I was eye to eye with the Widow. The child retreated toward the doors, her pale eyes fixed on me as I addressed the old woman.

“You speak of bane. If there is bane in this place, it comes from you. Not from your herb basket, but from yourself, from your stories and tales and talk. Sheep’s blood and corn crowns and holy God knows what else.” I turned on the crowd, “How can you listen to her? How can you let her do it? Can’t you see what she is?”

The Widow was not angry. She turned her smile on me, a profoundly sad smile, as though she had lost a dear one; the ironic, knowing smile of fanatics whose beliefs are so ingrained it is impossible to communicate with them. She folded her large hands below her bosom, two fingers toying with the ribbon from which her shears were suspended.

“It appears your sarcasm is lost on these people here,” she began, “bein’ simple folk. But simple though they may be, this is their village, their home. Their ancestors founded it for them and it’s been kept as they wanted it, and it don’t seem to me they’ll take kindly to such criticisms from an outsider. We let you come and let you stay, if that was what you wanted. We gave you the old Penrose house and let you fix it up and make a place to paint your pictures, if it was what you wanted. We don’t believe in meddlin’ with other folks, long as they don’t meddle with us.” She turned her vindictive look to the crowd below. “We were his friends; aye, and Justin was, too. Our Harvest Lord. But there are things beyond friendship. This man is a fool. He don’t care for our ways. The old ways.” She turned back to me. “You didn’t come only to fix up a house; you come to make trouble. You come to nose around in places folks should know better than to go. You come to make your wife unhappy-aye, and your daughter, too-and you come to get drunk at public affairs where only the kindness of the village admitted you through the portals. And when you was done with that, what did you do? You tried to suborn Worthy Pettinger, him that was chosen. And now you have the temerity to come here in front of these folk and laugh at the things they believe.”

She raised her closed fists in a swift denunciating gesture. “Let it be understood,” she called out in a thunderous voice, “this man is pariah. Henceforth, in this village he is an outcast and will remain so. Let us turn our backs on him, and our hearts. Let us lock our doors to him, and hide our children from him. Let none of us, neither the youngest nor the oldest, show our face to him again. Let us shun him as we would the rabid dog, the venomous serpent, the leper. He is forbidden. He is anathema.”

With outspread arms, she invoked what powers lay beyond the bright blue span of sky to sweep me from her sight, drawing her shawl from her shoulders and muffling her features so only the implacable, remorseless eyes-the Cornwall eyes- showed as she turned her back and faced the vestibule doors. One by one, those below followed suit, turning where they stood, and, looking down, I saw only backs, no faces other than Robert’s, his chin drawn down, his glasses black circles in his face.

Then the bell began again. A clang; another, louder, more resounding; another and another, increasing in rhythm and clangor. They turned back, looking past me to the vestibule where the child was tugging wildly on the bell rope. Her feet touched, she sprang up again, and again it rang; she performed a demonic sort of dance as she struggled against the weight of the bronze. Again her feet touched, again her body leaped; again the bell.

Her mouth was frothing, her eyes bulged. Tamar rushed up the steps; the Widow’s arm blocked her passage. “Let her be.” The child continued. Ring! Ring! Ring! Then she let go the rope, dropped to the brick floor, and while the bell echoed, she came from the vestibule; coming, she pointed; pointing, she screamed.

“He is there! He is among you! Guard him or you will be sorry!” Her head lolled back, then snapped forward, and she turned the full vent of her insane fury on me. “And you will be sorrier!” She seized my hand and sank her teeth into it, drawing blood as she had from the sheep, from the chicken, to feed vampire-like upon it, to feed her prophecy.

I tore my hand away, lifted it, and brought it down. She reeled and fell beside the outstretched form of Sophie Hooke.

Justin’s eyes flashed fire as he grabbed me and pinioned my arms. I struggled, but no strength of mine could match his. With overt menace, the crowd pressed closed around the steps.

“Kill him. Kill him.”

Merle Penrose and Morgan Thomas, my scarecrow masters of the night before, took me in custody and dragged me roughly down the steps, Mr. Zalmon following. Below, Sally Pounder pushed her way through the throng.

“But who will it be?” she cried. “Who will be the Maiden tonight? Who will make the corn?”

The Widow turned to Justin. “You must choose another.” He shook his head. Looking down at the fallen child, she gestured for the men to carry her away. “The Harvest Lord will not choose. Then we must vote!”

Tamar stepped forward, her hands clasped over her breast, a turbulent, ecstatic look on her face. Sally Pounder stared at her sullenly, her mouth falling open. “But Tamar’s been. For Gracie Everdeen. It ought to be someone else. Me-”

“Or me,” Margie Perkin’s face appeared before me. Others clamored.

“Tamar makes the corn better,” someone shouted. Tamar — Tamar-Tamar.

The name swept through the crowd, and looking back as I was led across the Common, I saw Tamar Penrose lift her head proudly and enter the church to be voted upon, while the Widow, who had been speaking with the minister, spun swiftly, her skirts flying out in a black swirl, her hands again raised in a hieratic gesture, of both benediction and blasphemy.

Then she, too, went into the church and Amys Penrose closed the doors behind her.

28

The clock, an oaken one, clacked monotonously over the wall calendar above the Constable’s desk, steadily marking off the minutes. I knew I had little time. The Constable sat across from me in the swivel chair. Tamar Penrose came in with two cups of tea, set them on the desk, and went out. I remembered the teakettle on the hot plate-the teakettle she had used to steam open Worthy’s letter.

I unwrapped two cubes of sugar and dropped them in the cup, squeezed the lemon and tossed it in the wastebasket. There was no spoon.

“Must be in a hurry, Tamar,” the Constable said. He slurped at his tea. Outside it was growing dark; I could see through the iron grille on the window. The Constable switched on the light and got up and went out, carrying his cup.

I could hear them talking in the post office room-the Constable, Morgan Thomas, some others. The outer door opened and I heard a woman’s voice: Maggie Dodd. The Constable opened the office door and she came in carrying a tray.

“I got Bert to fix you something at the Rocking Horse.” She set the tray down on the desk and looked at me. Then she came around the desk and touched my shoulder sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Ned. Robert told me what happened. I’ve been in the city all afternoon, picking out some music.” She drew off her gloves and took the Constable’s chair.

“Hello, Maggie.” Suddenly I felt sheepish. “Seems I’ve been given a ticket-of-leave.”

“What happened, Ned?”

“I guess you’d have to ask Missy Penrose-”

She made an impatient gesture as though to do away with the thought of the malign Missy Penrose.

I asked, “What time did you go to the city?”

“This morning.”

“Did you see Beth?”

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

“No. She wasn’t there when I got home. Where’d she go, Maggie?”

“I’m not sure. I know she had some quilts to go to New York. Perhaps she took them down herself, after she dropped Kate off.”

“Kate?”

“She was driving her over to Ledyardtown to stay the night with a school chum. Then-” She made a gesture of futility. “I don’t know-she said she wanted to think things out.”

“She didn’t go to the Widow’s?”

“Not that I know of. She might have. I can stop on my way home and see, if you want.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

She gave her rueful half-laugh. “Certainly you do. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. I’m sure tomorrow-”

“I’ve got to get out of here tonight. Help me, Maggie.”

She watched me with a bland expression. “How, Ned?”

“Get the wire cutters from my studio and bring them to the window. You can cut the screen.”

“Stay here tonight, Ned. It’s all a tempest in a teapot, anyhow. I’m sure by tomorrow things will have cooled down.”

“I’ve got to get out of here tonight.”

“Why tonight?”

“It’s Harvest Home. The women are going to Soakes’s Lonesome-”

“Which women, Ned?” Smiling, she had adopted a patient tone, as if speaking to a child or a madman.

“All of them-”

“All?” Still she smiled, but the amusement had turned visibly, and horribly, to scorn. When she spoke again, her voice was hard, dispassionate. “‘All’ would include me, wouldn’t it?”

I stared at her. “You?”

“Of course, Ned, dear. Have you forgotten? I was born here.” She laughed, nicking the empty fingers of her glove against the edge of the desk. “You want to go to Harvest Home, is that it? Curiosity killed the cat, remember.”

I stared; was it possible?

“You are a fool.” Low, contemptuous; the kind Maggie-eyes were gone; in their place a small burning defiance, a triumph, as I had seen in Tamar’s face when she went into the church for the voting. I could not believe it; Maggie, our friend. I felt something like an electrical jolt, as if I had sustained a physical blow. I drew a dry shuddery breath and shoved my hands in my pockets. The swivel chair squealed as she rose and began putting on her gloves. I took a step toward her.

“It was you, wasn’t it? On the other side of the hedge. That day you were planting bulbs-”

“Go on,” she said.

“You heard Worthy telling me he was going to run away. You told Tamar to watch for a letter from John Smith. You got him killed.”

“Killed?” She worked the gloves on, finger by finger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ned. Nor would anyone else. Mrs. Zee drove Worthy to the turnpike to get the bus to New York. If he didn’t arrive there-well…” She shrugged.

“And you took the doll-”

“No-you took the doll. I merely returned it to the place it was supposed to be-in Justin’s field. It was put there for a purpose.” Her eyes narrowed appraisingly. “You may not have noticed, Ned, dear, but you have about you a certain air of- futility. You look tired. What you must do is eat and get some rest and not try to do anything. About anything. Then things may look different.”

“After tonight.”

“Yes. After tonight. After Harvest Home. If you are careful, and do not interfere, if you try to understand and be a good husband, things may look different. They may look different to Beth as well.” She rose, picked up the napkin from the tray, and offered it to me. “Dinner?”

“The condemned man ate a hearty meal? Thanks, no.” I stared at her, thinking of how she led me on all along the way; Robert, too. He had known, had been in on it all. Pretending, like the rest of them.

I turned back to the window. I heard her picking up the tray; she kicked her toe at the door and the Constable unlocked it. She handed someone the tray, looked back, then went through the door. The Constable came in.

“Not gonna eat?”

I shook my head. Chewing on his lip, he regarded me, then nodded at the cot against the wall. “You can sleep there.”

“When do I get out?”

“We’ll know tomorrow. But tonight the ladies want you in safekeepin’.” He chuckled, made a circuit of the room, started out. Then he returned, asking me to empty my pockets. I laid my wallet, money, car keys, and penknife on the desk. He picked up the knife, opened the center desk drawer, and tossed it inside.

“Don’t want no more suicides.”

“Why should I commit suicide?”

“There’s worse things.” I heard the men in the other room laugh. He swept the other objects into the drawer, then felt in my jacket pockets, found the flashlight, and dropped that in too, and locked the drawer. He went out, and the door was swung shut and bolted. Feet scraped on the floor, the outer door was closed and locked, and I was left alone, immured in the post office for the night. Was it just for the night? What would happen tomorrow? I looked at the clock again; the moon would be rising soon.

I stared at the door. The lock was old but looked strong- strong and solid like the room itself. I sprang up and rubbed my hand along the stone surface of the walls; small chance of getting out.

But I must get out. I had a plan. I went to the window and opened it, pressing my forehead against the wire latticework. I examined again the surround where the screening was riveted fast.

The clock ticked. I could hear voices out on the street, could just catch sight of the Rocking Horse Tavern; men were coming out and getting into the cars parked in front. They drove off. Bert came out, locked the door, hurried away.

I stared over at the Penrose barn.

Gwydeon Penrose. What had he been like? One of the hardy Cornish forebears, like the rest of the village settlers. Had he believed in the old ways? Certainly, I decided; they all had. Their fathers and their fathers before them. Crafty farmers, clever. I recalled Amys’s story of how Gwydeon had outsmarted the Indians, hiding his family here in the forge, and when they finally broke in they found-

Nothing.

I straightened, feeling the stubble on my chin. They had found nothing. Gwydeon hadn’t been there. Nor his family. They’d escaped-isn’t that what Amys had said? I made a rapid circuit of the room, pounding at the unyielding stone walls. If they’d got out, they’d had to do it from inside. How would I do it? Go up the chimney? I bent, feeling around the metal flanges of the flue. Though the fireplace opening was large, the flue was much too small and there was an ancient metal plate over it.

It wasn’t the fireplace. Where, then? A trap door in the floor. I slid the desk aside and pulled up the scrap of carpet. The floorboards ran from wall to wall, pegged and in varying widths. I pounded with my list, testing; felt the resistance of solid timberwork beneath. I went around the room jouncing my weight. The boards did not give.

I stopped, listening to the clock, my eye taking in the room again. Four walls, ceiling, floor, fireplace, the closet next to it-

The closet!

I turned a small wooden catch and opened the door. It was less than eighteen inches wide and ran from floor to ceiling. It appeared to have been a woodbox, nothing more. Dried mortar had oozed between the stonework. I knelt, examining the floor. The light was bad; the floor appeared to be covered by a square of linoleum that stopped at the threshold. I felt its surface, then tapped. It returned a hollow sound. I could see a bulge under the linoleum that could be the spine of a hinge. I felt with my fingers; there was another: two hinges. I tried to get my fingernails under the linoleum. One or two small pieces broke off; something was required to pry it up. The penknife.

I went to the desk and rattled the drawer. It gave slightly, but the lock held. I sat on the floor, braced my feet against the front, inserted my fingers along the underside, and pulled. The drawer resisted, then loosened, then came away altogether. I found my knife and began laboriously peeling off the linoleum.

At last-almost an hour later-I had exposed the metal that hinged the trap. Dirt had caked in the crevices and bound it fast. I used the knife point to scrape the dirt out, then tried again. With a screech of hinges the door moved. I lifted it an inch at a time, and when it was open I looked down into a narrow black hole. A crude arrangement of rungs descended along one side of the shaft and, taking the flashlight from the drawer, I climbed down into Gwydeon Penrose’s tunnel.

There was hardly room to move, and I was sure I would suffocate in the fetid, airless chamber. I crawled, wriggling and pulling myself forward. Dirt had fallen from the ceiling, and I had to scoop it past my shoulders and under to get through. Overhead I could hear a faint thrum. A car, perhaps. Maybe I was under the street. And what lay at the other end? Another piece of linoleum, blocking my way out?

The tunnel narrowed to a point where I could barely get my shoulders through. Holding the flashlight, I slid my arms out in front and drew myself along, pushing with my feet. The passage widened again, and movement became easier. I came to a kneeling position, then crawled on all fours. There was planking under my hands and along the sides of the tunnel. In a moment I was standing, and I swung the flashlight beam in an arc, determining what lay ahead. I looked down, saw some stone steps. I mounted, and at the top I found a small door. I opened it to discover a closet of some kind. I could feel clothing hanging on hooks, and my hand struck a stack of books. Books and more books. There was a latch; I lifted it and the door partly opened. A gleam of light showed through the crack; I heard the drone of a voice. Quickly catching the door before it could swing farther, I peeked through the crack; I realized where Gwydeon Penrose’s tunnel had led me.

The church. I was in the cupboard where the hymnals were stacked, under the choir loft. The voice belonged to Mr. Buxley, who stood in the pulpit saying a prayer; the pews were filled with the village women. Heads bowed, they sat with their backs to me, row after row of white-clad figures. I listened as Mr. Buxley completed his prayer, then left the pulpit and sat in his chair. Nervously he ran his finger around the front of his collar several times, watching the women, who remained with their heads bent. Mr. Deming appeared from a point past my line of vision, and stood under the pulpit behind the long harvest table which, I now saw, bore a large number of long-handled hoes. The rest of the elders ranged themselves on either side of Mr. Deming, and when the women lifted their heads, he nodded gravely, I heard a stirring, and presently the Widow entered in her black dress and white cap. He took a hoe and placed it in her hands. She turned and started up the aisle. Now certain others of the women rose and went to the table to be given a hoe, and they, too, proceeded up the aisle. When the hoes had been distributed, the men inclined their heads to the congregation in a gesture of acknowledgment, then one by one filed out through the small door behind the pulpit, to be followed by Mr. Buxley.

At the same time, women were coming up the aisle and leaving through the vestibule doors. The last person to go out was Maggie Dodd, who locked the door behind the pulpit; then she, too, came up the aisle. I heard her go out through the vestibule, heard the key being turned in the lock on the front door.

The church was silent. I waited another moment, then opened the cupboard door and stepped out. I tried the door behind the pulpit, next the side doors; all were locked. I went into the vestibule and tried the front door. It also was locked. The windows were too high, and in any case only the top ones opened. I was sealed in the church.

I shined my flashlight upward, along the steps leading to the belfry. Then I began climbing step by step into the steeple, passing the door to the choir loft, then into the small square room that had been the old watchtower, and was now the clock turret. Still climbing, I came into the belfry. Directly below on the Common, the women had congregated after leaving the church. I ducked as I saw several faces lifted, looking at the clock. When I raised my head again, I saw Amys Penrose coming along the roadway under the street lamps. He reached into his pocket as he came up the steps and in a moment I heard, far below, the door opening. Then the bell rope tautened and the bronze dome over my head began to swing.

I crouched under the arch, holding my ears as the iron tongue struck the first curfew note. The entire chamber reverberated with an enormous peal like bronze thunder that slowly diminished in a chain of echoes in my ears, then sounded again. The bell rang twelve times. At last it came to rest, the clapper hung vertically, and the rope went slack; then the door closed and locked again, while below all along the roadway one after another the street lights dimmed and went out.

29

Hunched on my perch in the belfry, I watched the moon rise-the Moon of No Repentance. Over black treetops whose branches seemed to reach upward for it, it rose, imponderable and potent, hanging low on the horizon like some titanic disk vast and orange and glowing, and on this night of Harvest Home it seemed its path was not around the globe in its accustomed orbit, but a trajectory propelling it cataclysmically at the earth, so huge and bright did it seem.

Generously it lent its light to this most ceremonious of occasions as the women of Cornwall Coombe gathered below me on the Common. They seemed to meet in a community of spirit and endeavor, but with little of festival or celebration in their demeanor: a solemn convocation, rather, their apparel suitable to the event, full-skirted with drooping hems and long sleeves, a druidic look, the moonlight causing the white folds to shimmer and gleam.

One pointed, then another, and I turned my head to look up Main Street where, under a porch light, beside the rusty glider, the child Missy Penrose appeared and came down the steps. The light went out, and now out of the darkness came another figure, their last-appearing sister, she whom they awaited: the Corn Maiden herself.

Veiled and ceremonially dressed, she came eagerly along the walk, her head proud and erect, surrogate for the dead Sophie Hooke. Tonight, Justin would make the corn with Tamar Penrose; Sally Pounder and Margie Perkin had lost.

They brought her onto the Common, where a festooned cart awaited her; her face was discreetly hidden by the embroidered covering. She mounted into the cart, and I saw the Widow’s white cap moving through the white-clad figures as she draped the great quilt that told the story of the growing of the corn across the front of the cart.

They held themselves in readiness, but they did not start out, for still there was one missing: Justin Hooke, Tamar’s partner in the night’s events. Below me I could hear the internal workings of the clock, its iron gears ratcheting and settling into place again, the metallic clicks as the hands moved. I looked up at the bronze hull of the bell and the great iron clapper suspended above me, then down at the rope that trailed from the rocker to the vestibule below.

I saw Justin before the women did. I did not know where he came from, but he was there, at the end of Main Street, his blond head shining in the moonglow, his body shrouded in the same red mantle he had worn in the Corn Play. He was standing there, then he came on, walking slowly-operatically, even. The women saw him, and they fell silent at his advance, a dark, majestic figure, looking neither right nor left, but coming straight toward them, his red mixing and mingling with their white as they offered token aid for his ascent into the cart, where he stood beside the Corn Maiden.

They were a pair.

Even with Sophie dead, and with whatever the night might hold, they were a pair, Justin and Tamar. I watched them as they linked hands, standing proud and erect when the wooden tongue of the cart was raised, the vehicle with its two passengers drawn in a wide arc, torches-two, four, six, or more- flanking the sides of the cart, one figure running ahead to light the way, while musicians joined the moving troupe, flute and tambourine and drum, and the flower-braided cart was pulled not by any beast but by the women themselves, along the roadway where dogs hugged the shoulders, trailing in inquisitive pairs, but silent, as if they, too, comprehended the meaning of Harvest Home in Cornwall Coombe.

I watched it out of sight, then began drawing up the bell rope, arm over arm, pulling it up to me. When it lay coiled at my feet, I took off my coat and wrapped it around the bell clapper, tying the sleeves to secure it. Then I dropped the rope outside the arch, put my weight on it so the bell tilted, and stepped out, clutching the rope and sliding down. The bell gave off one dull reverberation, which muted itself and floated away into silence as I let go of the rope and dropped to the ground.

Against the perfect circle of the moon, paler than an hour ago, I watched the crow wing to its perch on the far side of the clearing. Somewhere in the cavernous fastnesses of Soakes’s Lonesome the fox barked, the fox I had heard on my first visit, he who watched the watchers, who hunted the hunters. The hollow curve felt uncomfortable against my back and sides as I huddled under the network of vines that sutured the gaping cavity of the blasted tree.

Girdled there, a thick leafy screen securely hiding my head where once the screaming skull-the skull of Grace Everdeen — had rested, I waited, watched, listened. At my feet the dead roots convulsed themselves outward from the base of the tree to the spring which bubbled and fretted its way along the rocky stream bed. The thick grass of the clearing was a silvery-olive color in the moonlight; more silvery were the trunks of the birch grove ringing the open space, and beyond that the trees were dark, receding in black corridors into the woods.

Then, from afar, I heard the sound of voices being funneled toward me through the gap. Soon there were other voices-I had no idea whose-speaking in low tones. Above the flow of water I could hear them approaching behind the tree, then pass in a group, and I could see the backs of four women carrying between them an object which proved to be a large chair-not an ordinary one, but a sort of throne, woven with straw and corn, which they placed toward the edge of the clearing directly opposite my hiding place. Then, like me, they waited.

Beyond the gap, the singing grew louder. It had taken them half an hour longer than it took me to get to the grove; I had followed the shorter route across the fields, avoiding the men posted along the Old Sallow Road and entering the woods through the meadow. They were coming through the gap now, processionally, their way lighted by the torches. I listened for the sound of the cart, but the Corn Maiden appeared on foot and was at once encircled and greeted by those who had come first, several clasping her to their bosom, then leading her to one side of the clearing where a large piece of cloth was spread; she sat, veiled, the white mantle she wore drawn around so no bodily part showed. Eight or ten of the girls grouped themselves about her.

I had not yet seen the arrival of the two other important characters in the drama: the Widow Fortune and the Harvest Lord himself. The women had arrayed themselves in a large circular group about the clearing, waiting. I saw some of them whisper to each other, then look in my direction, and as they joined hands and came toward the tree I felt the fear of discovery. Suddenly Robert’s warning came back to me: the Eleusinian Mysteries, that no man had seen and lived to tell of. They came close, their faces turned directly toward me, but they had not discovered my hiding place.

Meanwhile other women were arriving in the clearing, many carrying hoes, some bringing wooden kegs, the ones I had seen unloaded from Fred Minerva’s wagon. Several large baskets were brought out, from which came chalice-like cups. These were filled from the kegs and passed around, the recipients tasting as though examining for flavor, then drinking.

Cups were carried to the Corn Maiden’s group, sitting on the ground, and they, too, drank. Presently I heard the sound of the instruments, and the celebrants arranged themselves again in a large circle around the clearing, cups poised in midair. I could hear someone moving behind me, and in a few moments I saw the Widow’s broad black back and her white cap as she walked into the clearing, leading Justin Hooke, whose eyes were blindfolded by a white band, tied behind. The Widow brought him to the throne, where she aided him in sitting, arranging his red mantle so it covered him to the ground. A cup was quickly brought and offered to her. She signaled impatiently, and it was placed in Justin’s hands, while another cup was given to the Widow, and they both drank.

The cups were passed, and passed again; the women drank long and eagerly, as if anxious to absorb the contents. They had broken up into groups, which in the most casual fashion began a loose form of dance, not the dance they had executed at the husking bee, but of a more impromptu nature, with no prescribed form. Someone started a song, its melody totally unfamiliar to me, with an odd cadence and odder pattern, a still odder tongue.

Suddenly I heard a sound behind me. Someone had come through the gap and was crossing toward the clearing, with slow, measured, almost furtive steps. A twig cracked, then another. I waited for a figure to appear within my range of vision, but no one came. Whoever it was had stopped at some point just in back of the tree and I froze, thinking she must be investigating the trunk. But no; I knew the person standing there was only watching the proceedings in the clearing.

Several women came toward the spring carrying a large metal ewer. They submerged it in the water, and while it filled they looked past me, one of them making a beckoning gesture, an acknowledgment to whoever it was waiting behind my hiding place. She beckoned again, gave a slight shrug, then the filled ewer was borne away, to be placed close to Justin’s throne. Now, one by one, numbers of the women separated from the others and gathered around the Harvest Lord. His blindfold was removed, the cup given into his hands again. The women dipped napkins into the ewer and began washing his feet, a ritual of cleansing and purification.

Ivied garlands and chains of flowers were produced and hung around his neck and shoulders. Then the same corn crown that had been used in the play was brought to the Widow and she placed it on his head.

These women now withdrew, leaving the Harvest Lord to watch the dancing.

The dancers were accompanied by the instruments, a primitive strain similar to the music I had heard from the cornfield on the night of the “experience.” From time to time, the circles broke while the women refreshed themselves from the cups continually being filled from the kegs and passed among them. Unfailingly, one was always carried past my line of vision to the unknown presence standing behind my tree, and I would hear low urgings, then a muffled response; then, the cup drained, the bearer would return to the group, where their somewhat stilted, ceremonial aspect was now wearing off. Their movements had become erratic, their singing often off key, their gestures more abandoned.

All the time, I kept careful watch for a clue in the proceedings that would tell me what it was Gracie Everdeen had done that had caused her death. Or what it was about the ceremony that had caused Worthy’s. Or why Sophie had taken her life. The upright lord, seated on the throne, muffled in his red mantle, seemed gradually to relax; his shoulders slumped slightly, and as his head moved from side to side with the rhythm of the music, I saw in the flickering light that his features had taken on a glazed, drunken look. The mead was having its hallucinogenic effect. I remembered the cask Mrs. Green had been given from Fred Minerva’s wagon: they had drugged Worthy before executing him.

The moon rose higher, and from time to time the Widow looked up at it; I judged she was using it as a clock. The torches were hardly needed now, for the clearing was illuminated by a light etching every detail. Again the cup was passed to the Corn Maiden, who took it under her veil and drank, turning to one or another of the girls around her, and from the pitch of their babble I could tell that the mead was having its effect on them as well.

Then, as the music built, the Widow walked to the center of the clearing and lifted her hoe to the sky. The moon was directly overhead. The dancers withdrew in groups around the periphery of the clearing while the old woman turned slowly, pointing around the ring with the tip of her hoe. I saw it swing toward me, pass, then stop. An angry look came over her face and she marched in my direction. Yet she also was not looking at my hiding place, but behind it. I could hear her decisive whisperings to whoever was waiting behind the tree. Then she reappeared, her step lethargic as she came to stand before the throne. With difficulty she assumed a kneeling position at Justin’s feet, where she bowed her head in prayer; the others were silent and watchful until she lifted her head again, then rose unsteadily to her feet. Her face looked flushed, and she blinked her eyes behind the spectacles. She made motions with her tongue as if she found her mouth excessively dry: she was not drunk but narcotized. Laying a hand on Justin’s shoulder, she spoke in a hoarse, uneven voice.

“Behold. This is our anointed. Give eye unto the chosen among us, give tongue to his praises. He was chosen for us, and for seven years we have loved and honored him. Trophy and tribute have been his, and the worship of all. He has been our Lord of the growing corn. He is our god, whose godhead is the crops.”

The voices of the women punctuated each sentence with responses of approval, which sounded to me like the “Amen’s” of a church service.

“As it was in the olden times, so it has been and ever shall be. It is the way. The spirit has been in our Lord for these seven years, and he has brought us good harvests. It was the flesh of his body, his strength and sinew, his limbs and brain, his blood that did this for us. The corn is his, each kernel, and for it we thank him.”

“We thank him,” they chorused.

“This is something to have done in a life. It is something to have been made for. To have been set upon the earth to cause the earth to bear.”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”

“Then let him be gloried!”

“Gloried. Gloried.” I heard the feverish response, saw the bright glistening eyes of the women as they lavished adoring looks upon him, some in their dazed state unable to withhold sudden emotional outbursts, pushing their way toward him and prostrating themselves before him.

The old woman’s body had begun moving slightly; I could see her shoulders lifting and lowering as though to engender more deeply the force of the drug in her system. Her torso made small circular motions while her hand lay upon Justin’s head.

“Hear me, for I speak with the tongue of the Goddess who dwells in the earth. I remind you again of Her promise. She will provide for us, She will give us the-” Here she broke off, as though to remind herself what would be provided. Having recollected, she went on in a thick, harsh voice: “The bountiful harvest, if-if we Her servants tend well to Her business. If we will believe.”

“Believe.” The word was repeated through the throng which forced its way nearer, the closest throwing themselves to the ground, reaching to touch the hem of Justin’s cloak. “Let no man gainsay us. Let no outsider comprehend Her. In a time when faces have been turned on the other God, let us acknowledge the Mother of us all. She will sustain us.”

“Yes. Yesss.”

“As She has sustained this, Her son.”

Cries arose, a piteous lament, and some had come behind the throne, leaning forward to touch Justin’s head and caress his neck and shoulders.

“From his hand has come the gift, and in return we have shown him our secret. The soil has quickened and proved fertile and the rains have been plenteous and the sun of the world has shone on us.”

“Has shone. Has shone.”

“The corn grew. We have prospered.”

“Prospered.”

“And-” She faltered again, making a tight movement with her lips to master herself, as if the next moment were of the greatest import.

“And in the gratitude of our hearts we now offer him the pledge and token of our esteem, as is customary upon the seventh year of Harvest Home, that he may know of us the secret heart of that which he himself has given us. He alone of all men may know the secret which has been given to us, the secret of the Sacred Mother.”

For an instant, I reeled back in time to Tithing Day, when Worthy had appeared in the church doorway and had damned the Mother. The answer was at hand. The secret was to be revealed, and with it the heart of the mystery I had so long probed. The secret heart of Mother Earth. The Widow’s last words filled my head: “He alone of all men may know…” I realized my peril: if I was discovered, they would kill me.

The women had formed a melting, slow-moving configuration across the clearing and, before I realized it was happening, from the midst of the throng was produced the core of the night’s mysteries, which no man but the Harvest Lord was permitted to look upon. Covered with a woven cloth, resting upon a silver salver, the mysterious and awaited object was given into the Widow’s hands, who now turned and held it before Justin. From her seclusion, the Corn Maiden arose with her court, she, too, to gaze upon what lay hidden under the cloth. It was not large-this I could easily see-and I felt a tremor, wondering at this rare and precious treasure, this strange, forbidden object none but the initiated might look upon.

Yet when the Widow lifted the cloth and revealed it, I saw it was the commonest of things, something I had seen constantly since coming to the village of Cornwall Coombe. Was it for this these ceremonies took place? Was this the heart of the mysteries of the great Mother, which had been handed down from generation to generation, century after century? Was this what Worthy had feared, what Grace had refused to acknowledge, what Sophie had ended her life in dread of? What no man may know nor woman tell?

An ear of corn. A single, simple ear of corn. It lay upon the salver in its husk, the salver held before Justin’s eyes as he gazed on it. What, I wondered, did the fact of it reveal to him? What had it been given him on this night of Harvest Home to read in a single ear of corn? Then I saw, as he must have, that what had been given to him was the exact and precise nature of the world he lived in, where the fact of the corn was the fact of his life. Like most simple facts, it was the truest, and the most easily overlooked. On the tray, hidden in the husk, was the whole vision, the life of the corn and the life of the man, inextricably bound together in oneness, bound in the tilling and the planting and the growing, in the harvesting and in-

I knew it then. I knew it! And was terribly afraid. The corn was the revelation; the revelation was in the corn: the ear in its husk held before the Harvest Lord by the hands of the Widow Fortune. Its deepest significance had been obscured by the tangle of mysteries, yet in a single chilling moment all the mysteries now became clear. I felt a shiver, like a strange paralysis, creeping up my body. I swallowed and, in the silence, thought someone surely must hear. But I did not fear for myself; I feared for Justin. I knew then the terrible secret of Harvest Home.

They were going to kill him.

Here, in the grove, in this temple of the Mother Earth, the Harvest Lord was to be offered in ritual sacrifice. Here, in the moonlight, with the dancing and singing women, Justin Hooke was being drugged, was then to be murdered, murdered for the corn.

This was why they had revealed to him their mystery, because he would never live to tell what he had seen. Bound together in oneness, the Harvest Lord and the corn, and as the corn died and was reborn, so would he die and be born again, not in himself but in the young Lord. The Eternal Return.

I felt shock, disgust, rage, felt again the hatred I had felt at the burning-hatred for their stupid, primitive beliefs. I wanted to shout out to Justin: Do not drink, run away; never hear, never listen.

I looked at him. He did not seem afraid. In his drugged state, he showed no loss of dignity; he sat regal and aloof, watching as the corn ear was covered again and taken from sight, as if he comprehended what he had been shown, and what he must now do.

The Widow was speaking again: “And as our Lord has accepted honor and tribute at our hand so he must likewise find his passing at our hand.”

The Harvest Lord made immortal. The pride of Justin Hooke.

The old woman continued, recalling for them the last Great Waste, when Loren McCutcheon had been Harvest Lord-Justin nodding agreement-and the cause of this visitation had come at the hands of Gracie Everdeen, blighted in soul and body, she whose Lord had been Roger Penrose, and who had defied the traditions of Harvest Home, had brought to the reign of Loren McCutcheon waste and dearth.

Perfidious Grace Everdeen.

Dead, all of them. Loren McCutcheon, but not from drink. Roger Penrose, but not from a horse fall. Clemmon Fortune, but not from an axe blow.

Murdered for the corn.

The Widow Fortune.

Widowhood in exchange for good crops. And everyone, all the villagers, had known it, man, woman, child alike. And he, the victim, had also known. And I, the fool everyone said I was, had not known.

I saw it now. Loren McCutcheon had been the Harvest Lord and had reigned for seven years; on the seventh year Justin had been chosen the Young Lord at the Agnes Fair. At Harvest Home, Loren had been dispatched by some unknown means and Justin had taken his place. For seven years there had been no Great Waste, the crops were bountiful; and now, tonight, the seven years were done. Worthy Pettinger had been chosen the Young Lord, with Missy Penrose’s bloody hands on his cheeks, signifying he would reign for the next seven years. But Worthy had not wanted to die. He had run away, been brought back, and killed. Insult to the Mother.

And Justin would die, in the prime of his manhood, to give place to the hew Harvest Lord, Jim Minerva, who in another seven years would also die.

The King is dead, long live the King.

Now the women could not stifle their ready tears, and they began an orgy of cries, voices calling out in farewell. I strained to hear the Widow. She had become somewhat incoherent, and I caught only fragments.

“Land has offered up its gifts-bounty-his hand given freely-be grateful-in gratitude mourn him-” The hoarse, uneven voice rose and fell in a fanatical paean of praise and sorrow. “Land will sleep-so must he-lay him to rest-recall with love-the farmer Justin Hooke.”

Generously the moon lent its light to the scene, which little by little became more agitated. Never while the Widow spoke had the cup ceased being passed among the celebrants; never had Justin not been offered it. His eyes glittered, his tongue betrayed the dryness of his mouth, while his glazed features seemed illuminated by some dread inner light as he listened to the doleful lamentation, prefacing what was to follow.

They would poison him, undoubtedly. Some baneful mixture the Widow had prepared would be administered, put into his cup, and given to him to drink. But this was not yet, this was later, for now there was something to come before.

I should have realized what it was to be, yet until it actually began, I did not. Had I known, nothing could have kept me where I had hidden myself.

But even this part was for a time delayed, while the dancing began anew-another kind of dance, a brutal, fierce expression of emotion. Justin was brought to a standing position, and the red mantle taken from his shoulders, to be folded by numerous hands and passed from sight. Now he stood before them in god-like glory, his body covered only by a short tunic extending from neck to thigh and made of strips of corn leaves, and I could see his glistening flesh through the spaces between the strips. Again he took the proffered cup into his hands, fingers spread around the curve of metal; I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as the liquid slid down his throat. He returned the cup, staggering slightly, pulled himself erect, and stood, spread-legged, waiting.

Everyone was waiting. And then I saw what was to come. There was one figure in the ceremony I had momentarily forgotten: the Corn Maiden. Until now she had sat by, accepting the cup as it was handed her, bending forward in rapt attention as the Widow spoke. Now her outer robe was taken from her and she was brought forward, moving across the trampled grass with a slow, undulating walk, an aggressive sexuality revealed in her movement, the embroidered veil hanging to her waist, the rest of her body covered to the thighs in the same sort of corn-leaf tunic that Justin wore. While she gazed at him through her veil, the women took hoes and dug at the turf, turning the soft ground. Little by little, the green of the grass disappeared and the sod was dug up, revealing the dark earth beneath. As they worked they sang, their faces flushed from the drink, their gestures feverish, as though anxious to accomplish their labor.

Among them walked the Widow, putting her hand to their hoes, each in turn, encouraging their endeavors, her white cap catching the light as she lifted her head and offered reverence to the Mother; and as she spoke, each word was taken up in turn by the women, so the singing became a liturgical incantation, picked up one by one, the next repeating it, and the next, and so it spread all across the tilled clearing, the Widow making gestures of transference from her mouth to theirs, offering them the words, they antiphonally returning them.

“We offer Thee, O Mother, Thy husband, as Thou hast given him to us, so we return him to Thee, into Thy keeping.”

“Thy keeping…”

“As Thou has provided him strength, take him in strength.”

“In strength…”

“For tonight he shall be gloried. They shall stand by his tomb and remember him. He shall not have been Justin Hooke, the corn farmer, but the Harvest Lord. He shall be immortal.”

“Immortal.”

“Take him to Your breast, great holiest of Mothers, this Your son, and succor him, receive him, forgive him. Blessed is he…”

“Blessed is he…”

“Body of Your body…”

“Body of Your body…”

“Soul of Your soul…”

“Soul of Your soul…”

“Soul of the corn that grows, the receptacle, harborer of the seed…”

“Harborer of the seed…”

“Receive him…”

“Receive him…”

“O Mother…”

“O Mother…”

“O Mother…”

“O Mother…”

“O Mother-r-r… Ma Mere…Mia Ma-a-adre…Maw-tharr… Mo-der… Ma-ter-r-r-r…Me-e-ee-eter-r-r…”

“Me-e-ee-eter-r-r…”

“De-meter-r-r-r…”

“Demeter…”

Thus continued the chant, a canticle in a gradual declension of words that saw its passage from the tongue of every day through tongues that had been spoken for century upon century and that at last became another tongue entirely:

“O Mag-thyr… Da-mag-thyr… Da-myyg____________________ar… Ah, ldhu, Mag-thyr…”

A tongue spoken before any of those preceding, and the women, hand-locked in circle within the grove, had the tongue, for the old woman gave it to them, but though they did not know the meaning of the words they comprehended their import, for this was part of the mystery they shared in; and as they chanted, the flutes fell silent and only the drums and tambourines continued, their repeated monotony bringing the celebrants closer and closer to the magic that lay behind this night of nights.

“Mag-thyr… Da-mag-thyr…”

A steady tempo measuring out the cadence and rhythm. And the tongue became tongueless, became sounds only, iterated again and again as the old woman turned the circle, her fisted hand giving the meter to the drums and tambourines, giving the women the chant, and the words she knew, the syllables, the sounds of the tongue that was no tongue at all: “Ah, ldhu… ldhu… yah… halg… ogrl… na…”

Neither English nor German nor Latin nor Celtic nor Sumerian nor any other language, for it was the tongue men had spoken at the dawn of time, when they first learned to communicate.

And at length, as the old woman circled, giving to them the sounds, some of the women’s heads began to sway and their bodies followed where their heads led them and their joined hands parted while, their throats giving utterance to the sounds, they fell to the ground and tore up the grass and dug at the earth like animals, swine rooting, groveling, rolling upon one another, writhing in hysteria, with heaving breast and flailing limb, and the old woman stood above them, driving them, her fist metronomic against the moon, rising, lowering, giving them the tempo and the words. Nothing could stay them now, nothing still them. Wildly they flung themselves where they might, heedless of injury, unaware of reality, swept into hypnotic oblivion, their stomachs expanding, contracting, drinking air that they should rise and chant again, and again fall in frenzy.

And there were some who fell at the feet of the watching Harvest Lord, who had laid his cup aside and sat unmoving and upright, observing the secret rites as they swooned before him, permitting them to extend their quivering hands to touch him: piteous, tender hands, despairing hands; surely they must touch their last. Beloved Lord, O lively, warm male flesh, O magnificent Lord, we thank thee, the Mother thanks thee-

“O Mother… Magthyr… ldhu, ah, ldhu…”

Louder grew the cry, louder the chant, more serpentine their writhings as they yearned toward him, rushing from him to tear their hair, heads flung back, open-mouthed to shout unintelligible obscenities at the heaven that was to deprive them of their beloved.

Now it would be his death, the end of Justin Hooke. But no; still it was not yet. There was more for the living Justin, one thing more for him to do. They swooped upon him and brought him from where he stood beside the Corn Maiden to a spot near the center of the clearing where the earth had been hoed, and from my hiding place I could see the blank glitter of his eyes, the half-lidded look of pleasure as they strewed themselves about his feet, rubbing their cheeks along his legs, upward to his thighs, their eager hands reaching under his tunic to fondle and caress him. His head dropped back and a deep-throated moan of pleasure issued from his mouth as he became aroused, and through the parted strips of corn leaves appeared the living malehood of the Harvest Lord.

“Ya-ldhu!” they screamed, rushing to touch it, feel the erect object of their adoration, the great rooster that had occasioned the ribald comments at their kitchen doors. “Ya — ldhu! Ahm-lot! AHM-lot!” Cries of torment, their frenzy now insupportable. The sight and touch of the Priapean object induced a wild pantomime of devotion, an obscene reverence to the maleness of the Harvest Lord.

They were working at his back, binding his hands behind with braided thongs, rendering them useless. Then the Corn Maiden was brought to him and I realized what must follow. Together, in front of the others, they were to make the corn!

The veiled figure stood before him, leaf strips from neck to thigh, white legs gleaming, and arms, as she brought them up in a worshipful gesture, violently trembling.

Hands reached to draw away the veil, and as it fluttered, then slid away entirely, I stared, only half hearing the twig crack behind the tree as the waiting presence took a step forward. I paid scant attention to my danger as in that single terrible moment I realized the mistake I had made, and to what extent I had underrated the Widow Fortune’s powers of persuasion. If Tamar Penrose had been a candidate, and Sally and Margie, they had all lost. The Widow had wanted new blood for the Corn Maiden; she had got it.

It was Beth.

Like one entranced, she stood as if she had stepped from a sleeping dream into a waking one. Hands reached to support her as she faced Justin; the Harvest Lord and the Corn Maiden: the man and the woman: my friend and my wife. She had eyes for nothing but him. In a blinding flash, I thought back to the night of the “experience”: Beth in the chair, her hand raised. She had not been pulling down the shade; she had seen him, was acknowledging him. Already the Widow had begun her corruption.

Her body swayed as if drawn to him by a magnet. She tried to lift her arms, they dropped to her sides; she went slack, crumpled under the power of the keg liquor. Hands bore her down, where her fingers dug at the tilled earth. Dirtied, they became claws and began rending the thin fabric of the leaves that covered her, exposing her breasts and belly; then, looking up at the figure towering over her, she moaned and her hand reached upward. She wanted him. She wanted to take him, to take him inside her, to couple with him.

I cried out, and began tearing at the covering of vines across the tree hollow, hearing the step at my side, twigs cracking, then being confronted in my struggle by the red-lipped face of Tamar Penrose, her red-nailed fingers ripping at the screen of leaves to expose me, calling loudly, “He has seen!” heads turning while I sought to free myself, enraged that the vines which had sequestered me now became my fetters and held me fast, while with angry cries they came at me, a wave of vengeful harpies. I cursed them, trying to free my hands and feet, feeling the sharpness of their nails as they tore at the vines, and “Denier!” they shouted, astonished and furious, “he has denied us,” while I yanked and pulled, saw Tamar’s glittering eyes, in my mind saw Missy’s deader ones, heard her say “You will be sorrier!” the blank yet knowing look; “Kill him!” they cried. Justin and Beth turned with uncomprehending stares, not knowing what had happened. “Kill him!” the women cried again.

“No!” someone commanded-the Widow’s voice, but not the Widow at all: some bedeviled creature, unearthly in her fury, her cap fallen off, hair wildly hanging about her shoulders, her black dress smutted. The Widow in the madness of her own dream, into which I rashly had intruded.

“No! He shall not be killed yet. He has come to see. He has come to witness. Let him see. Let him witness. Let him see the Harvest Lord at work. Let him see the furrow plowed! Let him see the making of the corn.” While many hands imprisoned me in the hollow of the tree, she turned back and at her signal the drugged Justin was brought again to stand spread-legged over the supine body of Beth, his arms pinned behind, while they spread her legs apart and he stepped between them and knelt, and eagerly they guided him into the darkness between her legs.

I went mad. Waves of nausea and horror swept me. A stoppage in my ears as if all sound were suddenly cut off, a switch thrown, a plug pulled, leaving only dull interior explosions, painful sparks behind my straining eyeballs, the blood surging through the taut veins in my neck, my teeth clamping onto my lower lip to stop the soundless words I screamed, trying to turn away, to shut my eyes, feeling the sting of Tamar’s nails as they bit into my arm until I was made to watch again.

“See! See him plow the furrow. Watch!”

I watched. She was not his lover, nor he hers, but both were instruments of the women, his arms bound, hers held outstretched on the earth as he probed her, and my cries broke from my lips again, mingling with the ecstatic chant that moment by moment mounted in tempo and pitch, “ldhu, ldhu,” thrusting their shoulders as he thrust, grunting as she grunted, “ldhu,” and “ldhu,” some moving behind him, their fingers tracing the curve of his back as it arched and bent again, rose and sank, their passion spurring his passion, she beneath him crying out in lust and pain. In the madness and the moonlight, his face contorted in spasm as he pushed his way farther. And then, in the moment of complete knowledge, they worked each other, met shudderingly, and capitulated. The corn was made.

I screamed out, but all eyes were on the locked pair. As they lay on the ground, he covering her, the handle of a hoe was thrust through his bent arms and across his back, and he was torn from her. They brought him to his knees with his spine arched like a bow. A tremendous roaring sounded in his throat. Some of them had lifted her away, and she lay panting as she was covered over with the mantle and the veil was drawn over her head. His bull-like roars continued; he knelt, dripping onto the ground. I shouted again, trying still to pull away from the hands holding me.

What followed took only seconds. There was a quick flash of movement as Tamar sprang forward. A woman whose fingers were tangled in Justin’s hair forced his head back and moved aside when with a wild look Tamar thrust herself at him. A silver crescent gleamed in her hand; she raised the sharpened sickle and, holding the tip with the other hand, in one swift movement she slashed it across the exposed throat. His roar became a wild bellow, then turned to a gurgle; a torrent of red appeared, a brightly flowing curtain melting down the neck and onto the chest. They bent him back farther and came with cup and bowl to catch the precious liquid, stumbling as they bore it to all quarters of the clearing, spilling his blood among the upturned clods.

It was an ugly death. They struggled to hold him through the series of convulsive heaves that wracked his body, the giant muscles bulging, arms flailing, a slow agony as the red life drained from him and was poured into the ground. Then the great shoulders heaved, slanted sidewise, and he buckled like a gored bull and toppled over, the blood still gushing from the crescent wound.

They had dragged me from the hollow and pushed me forward the better to see this horror, the death of the Harvest Lord. I watched as I had watched the eye in dreams, unable to do anything else. It was not happening, it could not be happening; yet I knew it was. I shut my eyes, trying not to look; yet I looked. The massive chest rose in a thickly glutted cough, there was a final eruption of blood through the mouth, the lids flickered, the eyes rolled upward, then the great heart ceased pumping and he lay still.

They changed his position, straightening him out on the earth, laying him on his side, resting his head along one bent arm. Then, the final horror: Tamar flung herself down on the ground beside him, pulling herself to him, entwining her arms about him in bloody embrace, her red lips kissing his redder ones.

The hands relaxed their hold on me as the women watched the hideous sight. I pulled free. The moon had gone behind a cloud and the clearing had become dark. Beyond the clearing were the trees, beyond the trees lay safety. I began running. But what tree was there to shelter this fugitive, to harbor the defiler of the temple, the heretic? Like nemeses, they appeared from all sides of the clearing, blocking my every way. I wheeled, my foot caught on a bared root, and I went down, feeling the taste of earth upon my tongue. It was not bitter. As I waited for them to attack, it seemed the ground was strangely warm, and I strangely comforted. In those few brief moments, I pressed my cheek against the tilled soil, the very bosom of Mother Earth, feeling it assuage the burning flesh, felt the firm yet yielding body of it under my flattened palms. It was as though, beneath my beating heart, I could sense the heart of the land itself, the heart that lay within, the heart of Mother Earth. Through all my being I could feel Her massiveness, Her power, and Her strength. She did not spurn me; She seemed to draw me to her, to embrace me. Though She, who had given me life, would give no more, She would receive me back to her, and as I had never prayed to God for my soul’s repose, now I prayed to Her, not for succor or protection, but for absolution.

She was clement. She would forgive.

Then, as I lay there on the steaming earth, out of the shambles of the night the women fell upon me.

30

It’s too lovely a day”-raising the window-”to keep it outside the house. Feel that glorious spring breeze.”

“Mother-your dress!”

“Like it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“I thought perhaps-”

“No, it’s just perfect.”

“I’m glad.” She went from the bacchante room to the kitchen, leaving behind the scent of the lilacs she had arranged on the sideboard.

“What about dessert?”

“In the refrigerator, darling.”

The refrigerator door opened. “Chocolate mousse. How many?”

“Six. Two for Maggie and Robert, two for you and Jim, one for me, one for the Widow. Open the window over the sink, Kate, would you?”

The window slid in its frame and, as though in response, beyond the hedge Robert’s sun-porch window was raised.

“Morning, Robert.”

“It’s Maggie, Beth. Marvelous day for a picnic. How’s it coming?”

“In a jiffy.”

“I think you’re crazy, always doing the whole thing yourself.”

“I want to. Got the martinis?”

“Iced and ready. Here’s Robert-”

“Morning, Beth. Spring at last, hey?”

“Oh, yes. I thought it would never come.”

It was true. After the long winter, the balmy caressing air already had a hint of summer in it. And where it slipped under the window of the bacchante room it mixed with and circulated the perfume of the lilacs. From window to window, they discussed the yellow bird in the locust tree.

“I told you,” Robert said. “It comes back every year.”

The Invisible Voice began:

“‘Though certainly I don’t know why you should,’ said Dora-’And I am sure no one’ — ’Jip, you naughty boy, come — ’ I don’t know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the time.

“When Dora hung her head and” cried, and trembled…”

“We’re having chocolate mousse,” Kate called over to Robert’s window; Robert replied briefly over the sound of the Invisible Voice.

“Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged…”

Presently, down the drive came the clop of a horse’s hoofs, and the creak of wooden wheels sounded under the bacchante room window. Beth’s light step carried her to the sink. “Good morning.”

“Springish, ain’t it? Where’s Kate, now? Kate, come out and see what I have for you.”

Scrambling noises in the kitchen, the back door opening, feet clattering down the steps.

“Mother-come see what the Widow’s brought!”

Beth hurried out to join the others. “Oh, just look at them,” she crooned.

“For me?” Kate asked.

“Aye. If your mother says,” came the reply amid myriad cheepings. “If you’re goin’ to have eggs, you got to raise hens. These here now are real Easter chicks.”

A car honked out on the street, a door slammed.

“Here’s Jim Minerva.”

“Congratulations, Harvest Lord.”

“Morning, everybody. Morning, Kate.”

“You’re lookin’ spruce for Spring Festival. How’ll it feel to be crowned? Here, take these creatures out to the hen house and put ‘em in the brooder.”

Kate’s and Jim’s voices trailed away as they went off to the studio. Beth said, “What are you giving Jimmy today?”

“I sewed him a new shirt.”

“I picked out cuff links.”

“Just the thing.”

“That you, Widow?” came a voice from the house beyond the hedge.

“Mornin”, Robert. Fine day for Maypoling.”

“The Eternal Return.”

“Chapter Twenty-four. My Aunt Astonishes Me. I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her a long letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I was, and what a darling Dora was. I entreated Agnes…”

“Dickens,” said Robert.

“Ayuh, Dickens.”

Presently Kate and Jimmy came back up the drive, laughing and talking in low, significant tones. “You’re lucky you’ve got that skylight,” Jim said. “But if you expect those hens to lay at night, we’re going to have to put in electric lights.”

“Listen to Jim, Kate,” the Widow said. “He’s one o’ the best hen-raisers in the village. Eggs galore, eh, Jim?”

“Eggs galore, Widow.” His voice, though bright and cheery, seemed to have taken on an air of depth and solidity.

“Mother, Jimmy says it’s all right with him if I drive his car.”

“If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Constantine.”

“Kate, darling, you’re bound to have your driver’s license, aren’t you? Determined girl.”

“It’s the Greek in her,” the Widow observed.

“Half Greek, don’t forget,” Kate laughed.

They made their goodbyes, and when the car had driven away the Widow said, “A handsome pair, aren’t they? Makes me think of when Clem would take me to Spring Festival durin’ our courtin’ days.” A pause, then: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if-”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Beth drew a tremulous sigh.

“She’d make a lovely Corn Maiden, no doubt of it.”

“I never thought I’d see the day when my daughter would be going into the poultry business. The way those two have worked cleaning out that studio.”

“Good for each other,” the Widow replied succinctly. “Like I say, a handsome pair if ever there was. Pretty dress you’re wearin’.”

“If anyone ever told me I’d be wearing maternity clothes again-”

“Are you takin’ your elixir?”

“Yes, and I can feel him kicking stronger every day. Missy thinks a ‘J.’”

“‘J’? John?”

“She says it’s got to be six letters. I thought ‘Joshua.’”

“Capital! The battle of Jericho and all.” Pause; then: “Sophie’s pear tree’s all a-bloom.”

“I saw.”

“Just like in the portrait. Pity it never got finished. Good painter, he was.”

“Yes.”

When the Widow’s buggy had gone, Beth came back in the kitchen and busied herself with the remaining details of the lunch. The wicker of the Hammacher Schlemmer hamper creaked as she packed it. The refrigerator door opened and closed several times, and her brisk footsteps took her from one area in the room to another while she went about her work. In another moment the sink tap was turned on.

“‘My dear Copperfield,’ cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my door, in spite of all these obstacles, ‘how do you do?’

“‘My dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘I am delighted to see you at last, and very sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much engaged…’”

The gush of water from the tap stopped; then there was a quick zip as Beth tore a paper towel from the roll. She dried her hands, humming lightly, then opened the door under the sink and raised the lid of the trash container.

“‘Dear me!’ said Traddles, considering about it, ‘do I strike you in that way, Copperfield? Really I didn’t know that I had…’”

She lifted the hamper and set it on the chair by the kitchen door. “I’m forgetting my quilting,” she told herself in a surprised tone. She came walking briskly from the kitchen, softening her step as she came into the bacchante room.

“‘Now you mention it, Copperfield, I shouldn’t wonder at all. I assure you she is always forgetting herself, and taking care of the other nine.’

“‘Is she the eldest”?’ I inquired.

“‘Oh dear, no,’ said Traddles. ‘The eldest is a Beauty!’”

The passage ceased abruptly. “I’m going, dear.” She lifted the pickup arm and set it aside and switched off the talking-book machine as she went on speaking. “It’s such beautiful weather. Nothing like a New England spring. Kate’s gone on ahead with Jimmy Minerva. I wish you’d change your mind and come with us. Ned?”

I could hear her leaning to take up her work basket from the end of the hunter-green sofa.

“The sun would do you good-being cooped up in here all winter. No? Well, you know best what you want to do- I won’t urge.”

I knew what was coming next.

“Oh, Ned,” she said in the nurse’s tone she had made her own, “you didn’t eat your lunch again. Won’t you try a little? It’s calf’s liver-your favorite.”

I could hear her lifting the fork, the tines striking the plate as she speared a piece of the carefully cut liver. I raised my hand to forestall her. Though I find it difficult learning to feed myself, I do not care to have her do it for me.

“All right, darling,” she said in her bright, indulgent way. “There’s crackers in the cupboard and cheese in the refrigerator, if you get hungry. And tonight we’ll have dinner at the Yankee Clipper, if you’d like that. Ned?”

I made no reply for I could not. It was as Robert had suggested: some tragedies were unspeakable. I would never speak again. I heard her murmur, and knew she was making an inventory of the things on my table. I recognized the familiar sound of the rubber-stoppered bottle as she moved it closer. “Don’t forget to put in your drops,” she said. “They’re right here”-taking my hand to feel where the bottle was-”and the cotton’s just beside them. I have my sewing, and Jimmy’s present, and the picnic,” she said, and I knew she was standing in the middle of the room, checking for anything she might have forgotten to do for me. She bent to kiss me, her cheek grazing the frames of my dark glasses, which she took pains to straighten again. “Bye, darling,” she said, pressing my clenched hand, then starting out. Her footsteps halted briefly and I heard the rustle of leaves; I knew she was making a last-minute rearrangement of the flowers she had brought in. Lilacs for Heart’s Desire… Then she laughed softly, the light, rueful laugh that was a copy of Maggie Dodd’s. “I’m forgetting your talking-book,” she said, switching on the phonograph and resetting the needle on the record.

“‘Very pretty!’ said I.”

When she had gone, I sat in my club chair, finding it extraordinary that she could unfailingly locate the precise place where the narrative had been interrupted. But then, she had always been extraordinary.

Somewhere in the distance a child called, another answered; a dog barked; and still the warm May breeze slipped over the sill, rustling the chintz curtains and softly stirring the leaves of: the lilacs on the sideboard. Their heavy odor hung in the room. For no apparent reason, I was thinking of Joshua: it would be a boy, as Missy had predicted; I was sure it would have Justin Hooke’s blond hair and blue eyes. Outside, in the bitter spring, the yellow bird sang as it built its new nest. I folded my hands in my lap. The clock ticked. The Invisible Voice continued.

The End