Harvest Home Part 25

"Christ, Justin-fertility rites?"

"If you like." Again a gentle smile. "But what is to stop people from believing? There are stranger beliefs in this world. Ours is very simple. And it keeps us from-" He paused, gravely looked off at the annihilated cornfield.

"From what?"

"From being afraid. We fear only one thing, that something should interfere or change the cycle."

"Which cycle?"

"Of life. Of living things, of the seasons. Of the natural order of things. The Eternal Return." He spoke simply but earnestly, with a depth of conviction I found it difficult to fault.

"But they go to church on Sunday and sing hymns, like everyone else in the land."

"Is everyone like everyone else in the land? I don't think a Cornishman would agree with that. Being different's part of our heritage. Personally, I'm proud of it." It was not arrogance I read in his face, but a realization of himself, of what he stood for in the eyes of the villagers, and his responsibility to them. They had honored him; he would not fail them. "If you have questions, take them to the Widow Fortune," he said kindly. "And," he added, almost as an afterthought, "as you hope for tolerance from the villagers, so they must hope for tolerance from you."

"What about tolerance for Worthy?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Simply that it doesn't seem to me that anyone's taking into account what he wants for himself."

"I don't know if Mr. Deming will want to take that into account. Worthy understands."

"Understands what?"

"What he's supposed to do. Mr. Deming does not consider that the honor's to be taken lightly. Nor do the rest of the villagers."

I started to pretest; he moved toward me, putting his hand on my shoulder. Even in his casualness, he gave me the feeling he was exercising all his influence, cautioning me not to behave rashly, trying to protect me from my own ignorance. That in some unspoken way he was to be trusted, that he of himself could control the situation.

"I understand. It's natural to doubt. Not to believe. But give it time."

Who was I to try to solve mysteries that had been insoluble for the ages. Napoleon, trying to solve the riddle of the sphinx. I would give it time-for now.

When Justin went back to work, I stowed my painting gear in the car, then drove over to the Pettinger farm. No one answered my knock at the back door; the barn was closed, the place deserted. As I left, I glimpsed Worthy's mother at an upstairs window; she made no sign.

Beth pa.s.sed me going in the opposite direction, toward the bridge. She waved, then sped on without stopping, and I wondered where she was hurrying to. Returning to Penrose Lane, I stopped next door to speak with Maggie. I rang the bell; she answered, kissing me warmly and pressing my hand.

"Hi, Ned! Ned! I'm so happy about the baby!" I thanked her, and asked if she knew where Beth had gone. I'm so happy about the baby!" I thanked her, and asked if she knew where Beth had gone.

"She said she had an appointment somewhere, then she wanted to look at wallpapers for the new nursery. Come on into the kitchen-I've got Robert's lunch on. Have some?"

I declined, accepting her offer of a drink instead. Carrying Robert's tray, she brought me into the sun porch. She set down the tray, waited for a pause in the narrative on the record player, then lifted the arm and shut it off.

"See who's here, dear," she said, "Ned."

"Well, m'boy, pull up a chair."

"Robert's reading Anna Karenina Anna Karenina."

Robert readied himself while his wife unfolded a card table and set it up over his knees, put the tray on it, and opened a napkin and tucked it in his hand.

"Thank you, dear." He began feeling out the carefully cut meat with his fork, the tips of his fingers working like antennas over the implements; Maggie hovered to a.s.sist his hand in finding the gla.s.s of milk or the salt shaker. When he had finished, she took his napkin from his lap, removed the tray, and bent to kiss him before going out.

"Don't forget your drops, dear. Perhaps Ned will take down the card table-all right? Anything you need before I go?"

"Can I have a cigar?"

"Oh, Robert, you know what the Widow said." She gave me a wink, set the tray down again, and took a cigar from the humidor on the desk, did her ritual of preparing it for Robert, then held the match while he lighted it.

"That's quite a ceremony she performs," I observed when Maggie had gone.

"Yes, Margaret's father taught her." He blew three smoke rings, the last pa.s.sing through the first. "Did I do it?"

"Bull's-eye. You should see them-" I stopped in embarra.s.sment.

"It's all right, m'boy, no need for blushes. The worst thing is for people to be conscious of my-infirmity. I'm used to it. Always amazes me how much I can see."

"You have some vision still?"

"Blind as a bat. But I can see things in my head. The wonderful part is that for me they never change. Take Margaret, for example. I know she's older now, but I see her exactly as she was when I lost my sight. And I get along. I have her, and my talking books. After Anna Karenina Anna Karenina, I'll undoubtedly get around to David Copperfield David Copperfield, finally. Is there a small bottle here somewhere?" His fingers were groping among the things at his elbow; I leaned over and put into his hand a rubber-stoppered bottle.

"That's it, thanks." As he removed his gla.s.ses and set them aside, I was astonished to see that he was not merely lacking vision, but that he lacked the very organs needed for vision. Drawing out the wads of cotton that filled the eyeless sockets, he put drops into each, set the bottle down, and replaced the cotton with fresh pieces. When he had screwed the top on the bottle, he felt for a paper tissue and used it on the lenses of his dark gla.s.ses.

"Haven't seen a thing for a long time, but I still wipe my gla.s.ses every time I put them on. Creatures of habit, that's what we are." He settled the lenses over the bridge of his nose and felt for his cigar in the chrome stand at his side, then smoked in silence for several moments. "I must admit," he said reflectively, "going blind came as quite a blow. Bound to, I suppose."

I thought for an instant he was going to reveal the nature of his accident, but he dismissed the subject with a spin of his cigar tip, as though life's horrors were unaccountable, and hence not worth discussion. "Some tragedies are unspeakable," he went on, "but we must endure however we may. I'll tell you something, m'boy, even though I enjoy my talking-books, I'd give up all the books in the world to see one star again. That's what I miss the most, seeing the stars. We go out on the lawn sometimes at night and Margaret describes them to me; quite a one with the stars she is."

"Quite a one with everything," I said admiringly.

He nodded. "She's a good right hand. Corrects my letters- I'm a rotten typist. Keeps me from b.u.mping into things. Think of it, these many years of keeping a fellow from skinning his s.h.i.+ns-that's a career in itself. Margaret's quite a woman." He felt for the cigar stand and tapped his ash. "Anything particular on your mind?"

"Why?"

"Something in your voice."

"Robert-what's going to happen to Worthy?"

He shook his head, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Hard to tell about Worthy. Lot of feeling about that. You can't go around d.a.m.ning the corn crop in this village and not have people angry." Worthy, it seemed, had been given a ticket-of-leave, and was being held in the back room of the post office under the ancient statute of durance vile.

"But he hasn't broken any law," I protested.

"No-none that's in the books. But in Cornwall Coombe there's a code of ethics not to be tampered with. To go against one is to go against all. It's not really a village, you know. It's more a clan, a tribe."

"Penrose tribe?"

"Partly. But a man has to show respect for both the village and its ways. What time is it?"

I looked at the clock on the desk. "Ten minutes to two."

"They'll be starting soon." He ran his tongue around the inside of his lips, then ruminatively touched it to the tip of his cigar. "About Worthy. I suppose it's a matter of-choices." He paused, tapping his ash again. I had the feeling he was picking his words carefully.

"Some probably wouldn't agree with me, but I believe a man's fate is in his own hands. 'Not in the stars, dear Brutus,' as Shakespeare says. No matter what a fortune teller may say, or an astrologer or a seer, the events that come to a man are determined by him and how he adjusts to those events. We're all offered choices. Our very existences often depend on these choices. Making the wrong one can change our lives, but at least the decision has been made; the brake has been released, the machinery can go forward again. But in going forward, it may bring a man to meet the fate he himself has sought."

"Did Worthy make the wrong choice?"

"I couldn't say."

"But it's such a small thing."

"There are degrees of smallness. I can understand your being interested in the boy's welfare, but it's out of your hands. I wouldn't worry. Most likely the elders'll give him a lecture and let him off."

He made a gesture, dismissing the subject, but still I felt that there was more to be said and resolved. He seemed to sense this in the silence. Nodding, he repeated Justin's words.

"If you have questions, take them to the Widow."

The church bell was tolling as I drove up to the Widow Fortune's door and knocked. There was no reply. Nor was the buggy in the drive. I waited another moment, then continued on to the Common. Pa.s.sing the church, I saw some women moving up the steps. Just inside the open vestibule doors, someone-Mrs. Green, I thought-was handing out slips of paper from a sheaf in her hands. I glimpsed the Widow's white cap as she took one and started in. Her head turned quickly-a flash of expression, no more, but before she looked away again I read in her face things I had never seen there until that moment. Was it scorn? Contempt? Or was it denunciation?

She entered with the others and presently the bell stopped. Amys Penrose came out, closed the doors behind him, and went down the street toward the Rocking Horse Tavern, I drove past the north end of the Common, where a large pile of debris was being a.s.sembled for the Kindling Night celebration; then I parked in front of the drugstore and went in. Except for the boy behind the soda fountain, the place was empty. "What's going on over at the church?" I inquired. The boy shrugged and gave me a peculiar look. I walked out and, continuing up the street toward the post office, I caught various looks, and had several backs offered to me, which made me think of the shunning of the Pettingers when they had come to the Grange with their pumpkins.

Approaching the entrance to the post office, I received dark and sullen stares from several men lounging in the doorway, and when I attempted to pa.s.s, Constable Zalmon came to the door and blocked my way.

"Sorry, son, closed today."

"Is this a holiday?"

"Nope. Just closed."

The coldness of his tone told me the frost was on the pumpkin; and not only in the fields. Taking a quick glance over to the church, I proceeded along the sidewalk toward Penance House. I could hear the men's voices behind me. I leaned against a telephone pole, waiting. They were watching me, I could tell. When I glanced up, they deliberately turned away, focusing their attention on the closed church doors. I slipped up the walk to Penance House, ducked around the corner, and moved quickly across the yard to the side of the barn.

I had not been there since the day of the Agnes Fair, when Missy had pointed her b.l.o.o.d.y finger at me. There were several outbuildings scattered around, and, a short distance away, what looked like an abandoned hatchway set into the earth. The double doors were secured with a heavy chain and rusted padlock. I wondered what the doors led to.

Across the way was the rear of the post office. There was only one window, with a heavy latticework of metal screening over it. I crossed the lawn separating the two properties and crouched under the window, listening for the sound of voices. There was none. I stood and peered through the grille.

The room was small and spa.r.s.ely furnished: the Constable's desk with a wooden swivel chair, askew on a square of worn carpeting, and a folding cot along one wall; on it sat Worthy Pettinger. His hands lay listlessly in his lap, and he looked pale and harried. I ran my nail over the screening; the boy started, then came to the window and opened it.

"You all right?" I asked. He nodded. "What are they going to do with you?" He shrugged and jammed his fists in his pockets, returning my gaze evenly but saying nothing.

"Listen, son, I'm sorry. I guess I'm the one who got you in this jam." He shook his head again. "They saw your letter. Tamar steamed it open; that's how they knew where to find you."

"You told them."

"No-no, I didn't. Christ-"

"How did they know which letter to steam open? Why would they look for a letter from John Smith if someone hadn't told them? n.o.body knew 'cept you and me."

I was perplexed. "I can't say, boy. But I swear I didn't tell them."

"It doesn't matter." He turned away, walked to the desk, and stared down at the tray of food on top. "Food's good, anyhow."

I examined the screening. It was riveted tight along a solid iron frame, the frame sunk into the stone surround of the window. But the screening could be cut. "Listen, Worthy, you sit tight. I'm going back to the studio and get some heavy cutters, and after dark I'll come back and get you out of here."

"Go away." He threw himself down on the cot, clasping his hands in front of his chest, drawing his knees up in a fetal position. "It wouldn't do any good. They'd find me again. It wouldn't do any good." He was s.h.i.+vering.

I thought a moment. "Christ, Worthy, make sense! What have you done? There's no law-"

He leaped from the cot and slammed his palms against the iron grille. "Yes, there is!" he exclaimed hotly. "There's a law for everything! You can't help me. n.o.body can. Don't interfere or you'll only make trouble for yourself. It's what they want. They always get what they want!" His dark eyes blazed; then the light in them went out and he wrenched himself away and sat in the swivel chair. I waited another moment, then left.

The men were still in front of the post office, looking over at the church. I crossed the Common and went into the tavern. Amys was hunched over a beer on the corner stool. I asked Bert for a Scotch-and-soda, and pulled up a stool next to the bell ringer. "What's going on, Amys?"

"Little of this, little of that. Not much in a small town like this."

"That's not what I mean. What's happening at the church?"

"Meetin'."

"What about?"

"How can I tell-I ain't there." He tossed off the rest of his beer.

"Amys, over there in the back of Penance House-what're those hatchway doors in the ground?"

He choked, sputtered, then let go in the spittoon. "Root cellar." He spun a quarter on the bar, wiped his mouth on a soiled handkerchief, and went out blowing his nose. I saw him look over at Penance House, then back in my direction before he went off toward the church.

Some men came in, Will Jones and Fred Minerva among them, and as they gathered farther along the bar I could tell from their furtive looks that I was the object of their conversation. I finished my drink and went out. The Constable was still in the doorway of the post office talking with the other men. One or two glanced my way, then returned to their discussion. The church doors remained shut. The clock said a quarter after three. I thought again of Worthy on his ticket-of-leave, secured in the back room of the post office, and I wondered what I could do to help him.

I had no idea how long the meeting in the church would take, but I still wanted to talk to the Widow Fortune. In the meantime, I drove south along Main Street, down the River Road to the bait shack. I found Jack Stump seated beside the cold fireplace. I thought it odd, his having no nurse; then I remembered that all the women were at the church meeting.

He turned his head to me as I entered, giving me a long look. Finally he lowered his lids wearily and rested his head against the back of the chair.

"It's cold in here, Jack. Why don't I poke up a fire?" He made no sign; I went about laying some kindling. When it began crackling, I brought a blanket from the bed and covered him. As I tucked it around his shoulders, his hand appeared from beneath the folds and grasped mine.

"It's O.K., old-timer. How about some tea?" He stared at the flames in the fire. "Some of the Widow's One-B Weber's?" A faint smile flicked in the corners of his mouth before I went to put the kettle on. When the water was hot, I got down the tea box and brewed tea in the pot and filled the cup. I held it for him while he sipped, but his look told me he found it unpalatable. "Sorry, Jack, I haven't got anything stronger on me." A sly look came into his eye. "You'd prefer some of the old stuff to the Widow's tea, huh?" He flashed another look, and I could see both fear and contempt in his eyes. He made a quick hissing sound through his teeth.

"Don't worry about the Soakeses, Jack." He shook his head, pushed the cup away. He leaned back against the chair and immediately fell asleep. I put the cup and saucer aside and carried him, blanket and all, to the cot. His body seemed to weigh scarcely anything, and when I laid him down I had the sudden premonition that spring would never see him back on his rig again.

As I slid my arm from under his neck, I felt something catch. The b.u.t.ton of my jacket sleeve had become entangled in the little red cloth bag around his neck, and when I tried to free my arm the string broke. I slipped out the bag and held it between my fingers, looking down at the peddler's face, agonized even in repose.

The wood crackled in the fireplace, providing a dancing light against the wall. Jack stirred uneasily as a clock chimed the half-hour. Absently, I toyed with the cloth bag for a moment; then, feeling something inside, I opened it and spilled the contents into my hand. There were a few bits of dried, crushed herbs, the rolled sc.r.a.p of paper the Soakeses had scribbled their warning on, and a ring-a small irregularly shaped circlet, carved in the village fas.h.i.+on from a piece of hollow bone. I smiled, thinking of the Widow Fortune's charms for toothache and for warts, and wondered what my own little red bag had contained. I blew away the bits of herbs, then unrolled the sc.r.a.p of paper, the sinister note the Soakeses had left in Jack's trap: [image]

I stared at it for a moment, holding it up to the fire. My hand must have been shaking slightly for I saw a small bright shape rippling on the sooty wall next to the fireplace, the tiniest beam reflected back from my hand. I thought it was my wedding ring, but as I dropped that hand, holding the paper in the other, the small shape still remained, like the signal of a tiny heliograph flas.h.i.+ng a message. I reversed the paper into the light and discovered what was causing the little ripple on the wall. When I had read the too clear words on this other side I felt a sudden chill, though the fire had warmed the room-the chill that comes not from any drop in body temperature but from those faint warning notes that are sounded in the dim recesses of the mind.

I tucked the sc.r.a.p of paper in my pocket, and was returning the bone ring to the bag when Mrs. Green came with food for Jack. She stopped, and without greeting stared at me. Hurriedly I retied the string around his neck and slipped the bag inside his s.h.i.+rt. I left quickly. There was still time to get to Soakes's Lonesome before dark.