by Thomas Tryon
“But it’s all vestigial,” Maggie hastened to point out. “Like the Spring Festival and the bonfire.”
“Country notions, yes,” Robert replied. “You’ll find evidence, though, that when the Christian priests tore down the pagan temples, the people made them leave the trees that grew around the temples. And more importantly, the priests couldn’t destroy the thinking that impelled the building of the temples in the first place.”
“What would Mr. Buxley do if he found something like this in Justin Hooke’s corn patch?” I took the lid from the shoebox and brought out the doll.
Maggie, about to set in another bulb, laid it down with her trowel. “What on earth—?” She reached and took the doll from me. “What a strange-looking thing.” She turned it over in her hands, examining it. Then she placed it in Robert’s hands and let him feel it, describing its form to him in all its details. When Robert had done, she stood it up on the ground among her iris cuttings and bulbs and pronounced it a most unhandsome thing.
“It’s really quite awful-looking, Robert.”
“Is it?”
“What do you suppose it means?” I ventured. “Do they believe in hex around here?”
“Hex is Pennsylvania Dutch, isn’t it?” Maggie said. “I never heard of any hex in Cornwall, did you, Robert?”
“No. I don’t believe so.”
“Where did you find it, Ned?”
“In Justin’s cornfield.”
I watched Robert closely, seeking some visible expression behind his dark glasses. It was impossible to see beyond them. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the arms of his chair. From the corner of my eye I saw Maggie collecting her gardening things, dropping the iris cuttings and bulbs into her basket. She rose, dusting her knees. “I’m going to leave you men to sort it all out. It’s too much for me.”
“What would Mr. Buxley do?” I asked Robert again when she had taken her basket and gone.
He shrugged. “I suppose he’d look the other way, just as the Catholic Church does. The church and the law have learned it’s a lost cause trying to censure such beliefs. How can you hope to fight them, when it’s proved that the old Cornishmen arrived here with the same gods the Indians already had?”
“But—vestigial, you say?”
“Margaret’s word, but I suppose it suffices. All these things are the traces of the older culture. Who knows why Fred Minerva will let his barn burn before he’ll put up lightning rods? Or why the Widow can cure things the doctor can’t? Or how Missy can tell the future?
“Justin traces his lineage back in an unbroken line to the earliest families in Cornwall. Now, those forebears of his were—as Cornishmen are—deeply religious. They believed in one way for countless years, and then the priests came and renamed all the streams and wells and glens, and tore down the temples and built churches and gave them Christ on a cross. They accepted all this for more than a thousand years. But all the time, they were feeling some nameless longing inside. What do they do? They hark back to the olden times, where they find a source of comfort that even they can’t comprehend, a fever that cools the fever, a mask that hides the mask.
“Superstitious? Oh, yes, Justin’s superstitious. It’s in his blood, his bones, his very nature. In his father’s, and in his grandfather’s. Because he believes that come hell or high water, bad crops or plague, what’s going to save him is that inner voice that he listens to. His or Missy Penrose’s, no matter which. That’s why they still have fires and dancing on the Common.” He put his hands on the arms of his chair to lift himself. “No, no, I can do it. Come in and have a drink? No? Come over again, it’s always good to have company.”
He went across the lawn as if he had eyes to tell him the way, and when he got to the back door Maggie came and opened it, holding it for him while he entered. “Thank you, Margaret,” he said, going in. I waved, but she appeared not to have seen me, and I turned to go home.
15
WHEN I REACHED THE corner of the hedge, I heard the sound of hoofbeats along the road, and saw Kate coming down the lane astride Tremmy. She sat the horse well for the length of time she had been riding, though it briefly occurred to me that she was coming at too fast a pace. When she reined up beside me, her face was flushed and excited with the elation of being on horseback.
Remembering the former owner’s warning, I told her to be careful not to give the animal so much head. She leaned from the saddle and smoothed the mane over the ridge of the chestnut neck muscles. “She’s just high-spirited, Daddy. Watch!”
She flicked the reins, spun the mare, and rode her in circles around me as I stood in the middle of the road.
“Fine, sweetheart. But I think Tremmy’s had enough for one day, and so have you. Cool her off now, and give her her dinner. Don’t forget to rub her down,” I called as I went in the back door.
In the bacchante room, I discovered ladies come to call.
“Behold your seraglio,” said the Widow Fortune, looking up from her sewing. Her horse, she said, had a stony hock today, so she had come shanks’ mare with Mrs. Zalmon and Mrs. Green to bring us a gift, a little wooden keg of honey mead. She pointed to the dusty vessel on the piecrust table, saying she had not wiped it off, since she wanted me to see how old it was. I made myself a Scotch-and-soda and sat in my club chair. Kate came in with a can of polish and began using it on her boots. “Kate,” the Widow said, “you sit that horse like a reg’lar hussar.”
“I want a new saddle for her, only I’ll have to wait until next year.”
“How’s that?”
“Haven’t the money. I have to save out of my allowance.”
“Chickens,” the Widow announced. “You ought to go into business and raise chickens.” She gave me a look. “You put up some wire and stakes and build the child a chicken run. When the chickens get tired of laying, you can always eat ’em. Beth, you promised me that recipe for chicken and crabmeat.”
“I’ll copy it out before you go.”
“What’s for dinner?” Kate asked.
“Steaks and salad.”
Kate made a face. “I’d rather have chili.”
“Chili?” the Widow said.
Beth laughed. “Kate’s favorite thing in the world is Pepe Gonzalez’s chili.”
“You come to me for dinner one night, Kate, and let me fix you a nice clam chowder, and you’re bound to change your mind.”
“Clams is all spoiled over to Boston,” Mrs. Green said.
“No.” The Widow was shocked.
Mrs. Zalmon said, “There’s poison in the water makes ’em go bad. People are dyin’ of it.”
The Widow shook her head. “Not content to ruin the land, now they must poison the sea. Think of that. No clams.”
“And oysters,” Mrs. Green put in. “Imagine. Today folks eat oysters whether the month’s got an ‘R’ or not. Things certainly have changed since I was a girl!”
“Cozy room, Ned,” the Widow observed, looking around. “Be nice for winter evenin’s.”
Mrs. Green made a mock shiver. “Ooh—winter, and so soon.”
“Aye, soon. People claim a New England winter’s hard, and I s’pose it is for them what’s soft. But I like to feel all tucked in by a blanket of snow come Thanksgivin’. And they say when winter comes, spring can’t be far behind. The shadblow will pop before you know it, and it’ll be Plantin’ Day again. There’ll be Spring Festival, and dancin’ on the green.”
“The maypoles,” Mrs. Green said.
“Maybe Worthy’ll be takin’ Kate to the maypoles.” The Widow gave her a bright look.
“Kate, darling,” Beth suggested, “why don’t you clean your boots in the kitchen?” Kate took her boots and polish away, mourning Pepe Gonzalez’s chili.
Suddenly a gust of wind blew down the chimney, scattering the ashes from the fire I had made to test the cleaned-out flue.
“Oh, dear…” Mrs. Green looked doubtfully at Mrs. Zalmon. The Widow glanced up behind her spectacles, then borr
owed Beth’s shears to snip a thread.
“An omen, for sure,” Mrs. Zalmon said in a hushed tone.
Beth used the fireplace brush to tidy up the hearth. “Well, we can’t say the chimney isn’t drawing.”
I said I hoped so; Worthy and I had worked like dogs.
“I told you he was a good worker,” the Widow said with some satisfaction.
“What do you suppose can be the matter with Worthy?” Beth said. “I never saw such a change in a boy.”
Mrs. Zalmon replied, “Some young people want too much from life. More than they’re meant to have. Worthy don’t know how lucky a boy he is. To have been chosen the Young Lord is an honor most boys wouldn’t sneeze at. Look at Justin. See at the fine farm he’s made, the finest in the Coombe. Worthy could do a lot for his family by settin’ his mind in the village ways and not wantin’ to be a revolutionary. Ought to thank the Lord he’s been chosen, Worthy ought.”
“How was the Harvest Lord chosen before Missy’s time?” I asked.
Mrs. Zalmon explained. “It was done by vote of the ladies. Everyone met in the church the afternoon of Agnes Fair and dropped a ballot in the collection box.” Then, Mrs. Green continued, the most votes won. But when Missy came along and it was discovered she had the power, it was decided this year to give up the voting and let her make the choice.
“Still and all,” Mrs. Zalmon put in, “that’s not to say Missy done the best, choosin’ Worthy.”
“What will happen if he isn’t in the play?” I asked.
“Not in the play?” The Widow gave a sharp look. “He’ll be in the play, will he, nill he. People expect it of him.”
“People don’t always do what people expect of them,” I ventured. “Maybe he’s got other plans.”
Mrs. Green sniffed. “He can’t have other plans. Boys must do their duty, same as men. That’s the way it’s always been. Isn’t that so?”
“Maybe.” The Widow was thoughtful. “Clem always thought so. But then he was a most unusual man.”
“Clemmon’s gone to glory,” Mrs. Zalmon said. The Widow nodded, and bit the end of her thread off.
“Aye, gone to glory,” she repeated softly. “Where, God willin’, I’ll follow afore long.”
“Afore long? Never think it, Widow!” exclaimed Mrs. Green.
“One day soon I’ll be gone.” She sighed. “Then who’ll there be to pass it all on? Who’ll there be to tell the young? Young folks is so diff’rent today than when we was girls. Still there’s Tamar—”
“Pshaw, Tamar.” Mrs. Zalmon was indignant. “Tamar take your place?”
“Tamar’s hoydenish, no doubt,” the old lady said mildly, “but she’s got character and strength. She’s of the earth, Tamar is. Maybe she’s not so spiritual as we might hope for, but she’s apt. If a pusson could talk to her—bring her ’round, so to speak—”
“She’d be a sight better than the bad one,” Mrs. Green agreed.
“Who was Grace Everdeen?” I suddenly asked.
The Widow looked up blankly. “Who was Grace Everdeen?” she repeated, looking not at me but at some invisible point between us. She thought for several moments. “Why, Grace Everdeen was old Bess Everdeen’s girl. Gracie Everdeen.” She repeated the name slowly, as though she had neither spoken nor heard it in a long time. Mrs. Zalmon frowned behind her glasses. I knew I hadn’t chosen a pleasant topic, but still I pursued it.
“But who was she? Why did she run away?”
“She was a wicked girl,” Mrs. Zalmon said firmly.
“The local Jezebel?” I remembered the comments after Mr. Buxley’s Sunday sermon about the jade of Samaria.
“In the Biblical sense.” Mrs. Zalmon’s needle paused in the air. “Grace was worse than any Jezebel. You could see the evil workin’ in her. Look how she changed. Took all those foolish notions, carried on as she did, shinnyin’ up the flagpole.”
“And if that wa’n’t bad enough,” Mrs. Green put in.
“Ayuh. Rasslin’ Roger to the ground at Agnes Fair.”
“In front of the whole village, mind you,” Mrs. Green said indignantly. “Shamin’ the Harvest Lord. Oh, she’d changed all right.”
“I could see it in her face. I could see the badness eatin’ at her. I knew she was lost long before the rest did. I saw her face all pinchin’ up, saw her eyes changin’. Look what come about the night of Harvest Home.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Mrs. Zee…” the Widow cautioned.
“She was a disruptive influence. At her worst she come, and—”
“Goodnight nurse, Mrs. Zee…!”
“Was a disruptive influence!”
From the village we heard the sound of bells. All talk and activity among the women stopped suddenly. Mrs. Green looked at the Tiffany clock on the shelf. “That’s not the six o’clock ringin’—”
The Widow laid aside her quilting. “It’s Mrs. Mayberry, passed over.”
Mrs. Zalmon glanced nervously at the fireplace. “Wind in the chimney. I knew it was an omen.”
The Widow removed her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose to ease it. “Aye. She’s passed, bless her heart. I done all I could, and Jim Buxley come to be there at the last. We must say a prayer tonight for her repose.”
Shaking their heads over the departed Mrs. Mayberry, the two other ladies said they’d better be going along. The Widow Fortune lingered for another cup of tea, and while Beth went to do something in the kitchen I took a sketch pad from my case and settled back in the club chair. On the small piecrust table beside it I kept a number of my bamboo pens, one of which I took out and sharpened with my penknife. Uncapping a bottle of ink, I began sketching the old lady as she bent over her quilting. From the unconscious pursings of her mouth and the slight lift of her brows, I could tell she knew what I was doing.
“What sort o’ pen is that?” she asked after I had been working for some moments. I held it up for her, showing her the hollow bamboo tube. “The Japanese use them,” I explained.
“Wily folk, the Japanese.” She glanced at my drawing hand. “How’s your wart?”
“About gone.” I produced the little red bag from inside my shirt and dangled it. “Wily folk, the New Englanders.”
“Here, put that away. Don’t go showin’ it to the neighbors.”
I dropped the bag back inside my shirt and we continued working, she on her sofa, I in my chair. When I had finished the sketch, the Widow asked to see it, and I held it up for her.
“Sakes,” she said, taking it and looking at it thoughtfully. “It’s to the life. The old lady and her sewin’.”
I tore off the page, rolled it up, and presented it to her. She accepted it with a nod and tucked it in her piece-bag. She took the bamboo pen from me and held it to the light, sighting through the hollow tube, then pressing the tip against her palm, as though in wonderment that a drawing could come from such an instrument. She patted my hand. “It’s the hand of course, not the pen. It’s a tough row to hoe, art—en’t that so?”
“Art’s hard, they say.”
She lightly touched her fingers to my chest. “Art’s power, and it comes from there. In the heart.”
“Can I see you home?”
“No need. No tramp’s going to snatch an old lady. Not this old lady, anyways.” She called goodbye to Beth, then shouted up the stairs to Kate, who came to the top step and waved. While the Widow gathered up the rest of her things, I stifled a yawn. “Too much art. I’ve got to get to bed early.”
She had gone back in the bacchante room for her piece-bag, and as she returned, she paused, her hand resting briefly on the little wooden cask. Her expression was enigmatic as she crossed the hall, and I opened the front door for her. “But not too early to bed,” she said. She went down the steps and turned again, her glasses twinkling. She bobbed her head once, then went down the walk and turned up the lane.
I made a fire in the barbecue while Kate helped Beth carry out the dinner things.
We were to dine on the terrace, on the wrought-iron glass-topped table that Beth was particularly fond of. We sat on the iron chairs with the white duck cushions, and there was the smell of autumn leaves in the air. While the steaks broiled we had the salad, and as Kate prattled on about her ambition to raise chickens I looked at Beth over the ironstone tureen. She wore her hair, as usual, in one long sweep, and she’d put on a touch of lipstick. I don’t know if it was merely the long late light, but she looked particularly beautiful. She had on blue jeans and a simple oxford button-down shirt, a marvelous shade of saffron, the color that monks wear in Tibet. I suddenly realized I had begun seeing her in a new light, that in some way she was undergoing subtle changes. She was still the chameleon, taking on the hues and attitudes of those around her, but a different quality had crept into her character, one of purpose and strong-mindedness. She seemed a more distinct personality, as if she were discovering things about herself. She seemed less my wife and more a woman in her own right, more self-reliant and independent. I felt I was looking at her in the round, so to speak, as one views a statue, from all sides, not merely a bas-relief with the figure partially imprisoned in the stone.
“Worthy left the lawnmower out again,” she said. I mentioned nothing of the earlier scene with the boy, and kept my counsel regarding his proposed departure from Cornwall Coombe.
“Oh, nuts,” she said, “I forgot to give the Widow that recipe.” While Kate carried away the tureen and brought out the baked potatoes and succotash, I took the steaks from the fire and forked them onto the platter. “Wouldn’t you know we’d be having steaks,” Beth said. “I’ve only got three; otherwise I could have invited her to stay for dinner.”
“The Widow?”
“Mm.”
As we ate, the sun slowly receded, and the golden light turned purple, then blue, then gradually black. Stars appeared like tiny lights being flicked on. A 747 went over noiselessly, its wings catching the last of the sun, glittering metallically. I lighted the candle in the hurricane lamp. A ragged moon had come up from the east, lopsided and bulbous, spreading a luminous silvery film over the tops of the waving cornfields beyond the meadow.
