Harvest Home

by Thomas Tryon

  “Plow the furrow!” someone called; the woman next to me clasped her hands before her, and her husband struck his thigh with enthusiasm. When the field had been plowed, the horned boys and the plow were taken away, while the women used hoes to till the soil all around Sophie and Justin, who again faced each other, in the middle of the stage, waiting for the rain to nourish the ground. The maidens dipped their hands in copper ewers brimming with water, letting the drops fall from their fingers to the earth. Next the seeds were planted, four kernels laid on the stage boards, the young men working with bags slung over their shoulders, just as we had seen them on the day we first came to the village.

  All this took place on Planting Day, which was during the Moon of Sowing, and after more rain, the audience became very still, for now it was Spring Festival time and behind the players rose the waxing moon, a cardboard cutout pulled along on a string. Enthroned, the Harvest Lord was now invested: a magnificent crown of intricately woven corn ears and husks was planted atop Justin’s corn-colored hair. Now Sophie, as his consort, was likewise crowned with ceremony and applause. Afterward, their outer robes were taken from them and the Harvest Lord and the Corn Maiden danced together, she demure and shy, a little frightened at his advances, yet encouraging them, too, he stomping heavily on the stage and moving around her in prescribed ritualistic steps.

  The courting dance ended. Now—during the period called the Moon of the Good Gathering—the Harvest Lord strode to the footlights and addressed the audience.

  “I am the Harvest Lord. The sower of the seed. The King of the Corn. You have made me all-powerful, and in return I offer you the bounty of the earth. I am he. I am he.” As he spoke, he made gestures of giving, while the spectators half rose in their seats, their hands reaching as though to receive his largess.

  “Give’t! Give’t!” the men shouted, the fingers outstretched in a catching gesture.

  “And do ye not,” called another, “be ye curst.”

  “Aye, be ye curst.”

  “And damned.”

  “Aye, then do ye be damned.”

  Justin nodded to them, still holding out his hands in his great gesture of giving. “Shall I be cursed, then?”

  “No!” they cried. “No!”

  “Do I drought?”

  “No!”

  “Do I blight?”

  “No!”

  “Then tell me your bidding.”

  “Make thee the corn!”

  “What, with the Mother?”

  “Make thee the corn!”

  “Yes—with another.”

  This response concluded, he smiled, showing his white teeth, then bowed and turned, striding about the stage and lingering briefly with each of the maidens as if he could have his way with any, and they eager to oblige him, but he had eye for no other than the Corn Maiden, the rapturous Sophie, who sat by watching.

  Then Fred Minerva pranced about in his corn tatters and, as Harvest Fool, flipped up the skirt of Justin’s tunic, making asides to the audience: “Hey, girls, now there’s a plow to make the corn with! You’ll be harrowed for sure.” Nobody seemed to mind the ribald talk, everyone laughing good-naturedly; one man crowed to Justin, “Hey, old cock-a-doodle-doo!” and another cupped his hands and shouted, “There’s a cock’ll do!” When the fun was over Robert resumed the story:

  “And in the way of the seasons and of time, the earth was quickened and proved fruitful and the ears swelled in the husk: the sun lent his glory, decreeing the Harvest Lord should be powerfully endowed; the moon gave him the magic that only she may give; in her turn, she decreed that while the Harvest Lord sat upon his throne and was young and vital all the crops would grow, the people would prosper, that man would have to eat. And the earth burgeoned forth and readied her gift for the taking.”

  The Moon of Good Gathering waned and became the Moon of No Repentance, and during this time Justin danced with all the maidens. Though I watched carefully, thinking at some time to see the figure—or a similar one—from the cornfield, I watched in vain. Other than the Corn Maiden herself, no one appeared who might have given me a clue to my riddle.

  Next, the children I had seen from the porch came onstage, dressed in corn costumes. They were the growing plants, and they formed the rows between which Justin and the girls danced. Then, as Justin appeared to grow tired and his movements became languorous, he knelt beside Sophie and put his head in her lap. Robert continued the narration:

  “And there was wind and cold, but neither sun nor moon nor anything good, for the earth slept. But under her cold white pillow lay a secret, which only men who have tilled the soil may know, and while the earth received unto her the Old Lord, and held him in slumbering embrace, her womb at the same time prepared itself for new birth, and this was the secret that every husbandman knew. And when she threw aside her blanket once again, when Planting Day returned, the Lord who had been the Young Lord, but was now in his turn the Harvest Lord, would rise anew, strong and young and beautiful, and so it would continue, forever, the Eternal Return, for thus it was since the Olden Times.”

  Listening, the audience nodded, their faces eager and bright as the tale was told. The play was the duplication of the natural process, a pantomiming of life itself, and it seemed to me that at heart these people were primitives, a clan of ancient lineage, plain and clear in their wants and needs.

  Onstage the corn children had clustered together, and when they parted again, a stir went through the audience. The giant cornhusk now lay in the center of the stage. The papery skins rattled, moved, then parted altogether, and with a bound Jim Minerva sprang to his feet.

  “Ho!” someone called as he popped up.

  “Have’ee’t a new one!”

  “New,” they whispered, nodding and applauding as Jim stepped to the footlights and bowed. Then the corn crown was set on his head, the plow was brought again, and when he put his hand to it a great shout went up, and people rose to their feet while the curtains closed. When they opened again, the cast stood in a line, making the traditional stage bows; the curtains closed again, parted to reveal the principals. As Justin handed Sophie toward the footlights to curtsy, she stumbled slightly, a buzz went through the audience, but Justin set her safely, then raised her. Jim Minerva bowed again; then they all bowed to Robert, and Sophie brought him to center stage; Robert bowed, and the curtains closed for the last time, and the Corn Play was over.

  Wasn’t it a fine show this year, they all said. I heard murmurs about Sophie’s having stumbled during her bow, but the rest had gone slick as a whistle.

  When the chairs had once more been cleared to the sides of the hall, the dancing began. The orchestra played one or two standards to get people warmed up, and couples were moving out onto the floor a few at a time. Wondering if Beth wanted to dance, I looked around for her. The Widow was again speaking to Sophie, and nearby Mrs. Zalmon was showing Beth her latest quilt. I invited Kate instead, and led her onto the floor, but I could tell from her expression she wished I were Worthy instead, and I had trouble keeping from stepping on her feet.

  The musicians swung into a plaintive waltz, and that went a little better. When Kate said she’d had enough, I took her to the sidelines and we watched the dancers. I saw Sophie Hooke go by in Justin’s arms, holding her long skirt out as he turned her, her head back and a little to one side, her hand resting lightly on his arm that held her, their bodies dipping to the lilt of the music. He was looking over the top of her head with a sober, grave expression, and I wondered if he was enjoying himself. Or if Sophie was, for that matter. She was gazing up at him with that yearning, bittersweet expression she had for him alone. Then I saw there were tears in her eyes. Yet, watching them, it seemed impossible that anything should really spoil the happiness of those two, and when next Justin turned her, I saw the tears were gone and she was smiling again.

  When the band began a reel, I went to get Beth to come and watch. The lines were formed, gentlemen opposite ladies, bowing, changing from
parallel progression to circle, the couples breaking up into fours, crossing over, making small circles, then spinning in the do-si-do. Never having seen an American country square dance before, I marveled at the dexterity and grace with which these farmer folk, so awkward and shuffling in the field, now executed the intricate patterns. There was Fred Minerva beaming, his heavy farmer’s shoes treading the lightest possible as he bowed to Edna Jones, linked arms, and spun her. There was the minister dancing with Mrs. Deming—where was Mr. Deming?—Will Jones with Maggie Dodd, Cyrus Perkin with Asia Minerva, the whole village mixed together in the community of dance.

  When good ol’ Justin passed, the Widow beckoned him with her thimbled finger and he leaned while she spoke in his ear; then he threaded his way through the dancers to Beth, and drew her into the dance, laughing as she got confused in the steps and straightening her out again, handing her along to Morgan Thomas, who passed her to Merle Penrose, as up and down the floor they went. When Will Jones left the dance to join the drinkers, Maggie came laughing and breathless and took my hand and pulled me onto the floor. It was hot and the music was loud and I was drunk and enjoying it immensely. Good ol’ Maggie.

  Then good ol’ Maggie was somehow suddenly replaced by good ol’ Tamar, who ended up the reel with me, and when the band began a slow number she was in my arms. Gliding around the floor, I felt quite the stepper, and for the first time that evening I wasn’t treading on someone’s feet. Good ol’ Tamar, she danced like a dream, and who could say anything if we were having one little dance together?

  She danced closer than convention might have dictated, but it was hard keeping our bodies separated, they seemed to fit so naturally together. Good ol’ Tamar, with her Medusa’s curls and her red mouth, and her red fingernails sliding under my collar, and the smell of that perfume. Not saying anything, but just dancing, and I recall asking her if she’d cut in on Maggie. Yes, she said, she had. I asked if it was leap year and she said no, just ladies’ choice.

  Then I saw good ol’ Beth sitting between the Widow and Mrs. Zee, and I decided we’d danced enough; I stopped and let go of her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She hung on me, laughing. Which, as any fool could plainly see, didn’t set too well with either Mrs. Zee or good ol’ Beth. I undid Tamar’s arms from around my neck and said she ought to cut in on Justin, ha-ha, and good ol’ Beth—there were two of her at this point—had put on her you’re-making-a-spectacle-of-yourself expression, so I guessed I’d go outside for some fresh air.

  On the porch another jug had been produced. I took a pull, and they all whacked me, telling me what a good fellow I was turning out to be. And wasn’t that Tamar Penrose some hot stuff, and wouldn’t you know a sly chap like me would be getting some of that, and was I ever going to catch it when I got home! I thumped them back and told them what good fellows they were turning out to be, and no, I wasn’t getting any of that, we were just dancing, and if my wife didn’t like it she could go frib a frabble. They laughed and thought that was funny, and went back to talking corn. When the music started again they all went back inside.

  It was then the trouble began.

  I was drunk, and knew it, but it didn’t seem to matter—lots of them were in similar condition—and with a last look at the clouds scuttling over the moon, casting rolling shadows along the deserted Common, I stumbled back inside, hearing the music—not the band we had been listening to, but something with a more exotic sound, the same kind we had heard on the night of the “experience,” and it was a pleasant sound, but I saw that none of the men were dancing now, only the women, barefooted, dancing in a circle, the floor strewn with fine grain laid in patterns with designs drawn in it, and Missy Penrose in the center of the dancing circle and what was she wearing—some sort of corn crown—and the women had joined hands as they moved around her in the circle—heads now raised joyfully, now bowed in contrition, now exultant again, backed by the syncopation of drum and tambourine and flute—for the fiddle was silent—with flex of knee and thrust of breast, graceful arms extending, lilting left and right with a sowing motion, the feet tracing patterns in the grain, brows glistening, and radiant Tamar, her Medusa’s locks winding, her woman’s body arching and dipping—I couldn’t take my eyes off her—writhing almost, her face ecstatic, transported, seeking and calling forth with pride and longing, the dance becoming a ritual, and I, uninitiate, trying to make sense of it, bewildered by the mysterious weaving of hands, intertwining of figures back and forth, in and out, up and down, still maintaining the form of the revolving circle, then a rush of awful reality as though those circles marked by the women’s slipping, sliding feet and intertwined fingers manifested some impenetrable knowledge, imprisoned some mystical charm, and the men hot and sweaty, all gape-mouthed and glassy-eyed, watching the sinuous rotations, while I, feeling drunker than I had ever been in my life, dipped the sweat from my forehead, somehow wanting everything to stop now, but it would not, I could not make it—my mouth gaping also as within the circles appeared other figures, small, lewd, primal figures of fecundity, all breasts and buttocks with great blank mouths and staring eyes, and NO, I shouted, wanting to stop it, it was wrong, there was something terrible about it, suddenly it was all serious and it seemed to have woven some deeper, more sinister meaning into the circles round and round, the straw figures bobbing on poles, the women crushing them to their breasts with ecstatic moans, and where the children had been dancing the boys were no longer there but only the girls dancing in imitation of their elders, Missy Penrose dancing, not merely dancing, but as she turned, dervish-like, pointing, pointing around the hall, stopping, pointing at me—God damn you! I thought; damn you and your pointing finger and your chicken guts—and one or two of the girls were brought from their circle into the other circle and—What the hell!—there was Kate, dear Kate, sweet Kate, wearing a crown, a corn crown, and what was this, some sort of payment for her life having been saved, but no, I thought, God damn it, whatever was going on they weren’t to bring her into any God-damned circle and put a crown on her, and I lurched across the hall, shouldering my way past the men, dimly aware of Beth’s protesting voice, then of her coming after me and trying to pull me back, and I was resisting her, yanking free and breaking two girls’ link in the circle and stepping into it and roughly tearing Kate away, the crown from her head, hearing hisses and sharp whispers, the children stopping, drawing back in shocked surprise, some crying out, attracting the attention of the rest, an angry murmur arising among the men, a rustling among the old women like wind through dry grass, then my glimpsing an angrier face under a white cap, risen from a chair, eyes flashing in flesh gone pale, closed fist uplifted as though to strike, a sibyl become harpy, the dancing women never pausing but whirling by, giving me deadly looks, Tamar’s face a mask of loathing; but, angry, confused, not knowing I should turn my head away in shame, still dragging Kate, I propelled her to the entrance where I stopped, not letting go her hand but then, astonished, releasing her as the music ceased—not all at once, but by degrees, the dancing as well—all heads turning to see who stood in the lighted doorway, and I blinked in perplexity as I stared at Mr. Deming and the Constable, each gripping an arm of the thin, dark figure between them, and I shouted and lurched toward them, trying to break their hold on the prisoner, staring at Worthy Pettinger’s pale defeated face, and reeling again or spinning or being pushed and the pale face vanishing, the remaining faces no longer friendly as rough hands seized me, shoving me out of the hallway and down the steps to sprawl in the roadway while on the porch moths spiraled in pale dementia around the light under the harvest symbol and unsmiling faces aligned themselves in drained fury and they flung cobs at me without passion but remorselessly, and even then I would not turn my head away but lay there, bloodied and astonished, wondering what it truly was I had seen that night.

  23

  NEXT MORNING, A DEADLY hangover. Vague recollections of disaster, of something—what? Couldn’t remember. Downed Alka-Seltzer, aspirin, took one show
er, then a second. Some better; not much. Still couldn’t remember. What had I done? Kate: Skip it, Daddy; it’s all right. Beth: Don’t worry, darling, it was nothing. Giving me a smile, a pat, and I could smell Pears’ soap when she kissed me lightly. About midmorning I remembered dancing with Tamar Penrose; bits and pieces of the evening impinged fractionally on my memory. Still dazed, I found the copy of the New English Bible and, confronting Beth in the bacchante room, swore on the Book never to have anything to do with Tamar again.

  “Ned, I don’t want your promise.”

  “But I want to promise,” I said. “I want to swear I’ll never have anything to do with her, never even talk to her again.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. It doesn’t matter—really it doesn’t.”

  But it did to me, and so I promised, and I felt better for having done so. My earnestness must have made some impression on her, for she laughed and acted sympathetic and was the indulgent wife.

  She got up from the sofa and raised the window; she had noticed before I had: the yellow bird had flown. It was curious how silent the locust tree and the drive had become. “Robert says it will be back in the spring; it always comes back.”

  “The same bird?” I asked.

  “Yes. The very same one. The Eternal Return.” She turned and looked at me. “When it comes back—” Again the complacent smile; I knew what she was thinking.

  “There’ll be the baby.”

  She nodded, went into the kitchen. I followed.

  “Are you sure? I mean—”

  “Certainly.”

  There seemed no doubt of it. The morning sickness had begun; her breasts were swelling, and her belly. Still—