by Thomas Tryon
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 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 “Defiler!” they shouted, astonished and furious, “he has defiled 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 cha
nge 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.
