Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  A large black dog—a mastiff with something else in the mix—bounded up to the fence where Saint-Germain was standing, barking ferociously while wagging his tail.

  “Max! Max! Cut it out!” The voice was young and female, and in a little while she came out of the rear of the house, calling, “Max! Stop it, now!” as she hurried toward the fence. She caught sight of Saint-Germain and stopped. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “He’s protecting you,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Yes,” said the young woman. She stared at him, a bit wary, and patted her thigh to call Max to her side. “The tail isn’t very frightening. I guess he doesn’t think you’re dangerous.” She spoke with a flat Boston accent and possessed the angular prettiness that promised charm and chic in later life. She had lively blue eyes and slender hands; her dress was of good quality but at least three years old and her light brown hair was in need of cutting; she regarded Saint-Germain with a mixture of chariness and curiosity.

  “How good of him,” said Saint-Germain.

  She smiled at the dog. “Good Max. Good Max.” She patted him on the head as he sat beside her.

  “He is a good dog,” said Saint-Germain, his praise accompanied by a new, louder roll of thunder. “He pays attention to you and he guards your house.”

  Apparently aware he was being praised, Max flattened his ears and thumped his tail on the ground.

  “We’re saying good a lot,” the young woman said, her smile now more relaxed. She came to the fence. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “Alas, no. I am from Europe, only recently arrived on your shores. I have been looking about your beautiful city.” He held out his hand as he had seen Americans do. “Ferenc Ragoczy, at your service.”

  She took his hand and shook it once. “What kind of a name is Ferenc?” she asked, a bit apologetic for her lapse in manners; she folded her arms as lightning spangled almost overhead, followed in less than two seconds by a sharp thunderclap.

  “Hungarian,” said Saint-Germain. “The English version is Francis, I believe.”

  “I’m Bronwen O’Neil.” They shook hands and she blushed. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Hungarian before.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Bronwen O’Neil.” Saint-Germain took a step back.

  “Are you moving to Boston, Mr. Ragoczy? Or are you visiting?” She stumbled over the unfamiliar combination of syllables.

  “No; I am traveling through,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed.

  “I want to see more of America while I have the opportunity.” He gave her a quick, one-sided smile.

  “There is a great deal to see,” she said as if indulging in dinner conversation. “Have you plans for your explorations yet?”

  “I leave for Chicago early next week,” he told her.

  “Chicago.” She stared into the distance. “My father went to Chicago, two years ago, looking for work.”

  “And you’ve remained here,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Mother said it was best, until something was settled.” Her frown revealed that this had been more than an inconvenience.

  “That must be difficult for you, having him in Chicago and you remaining in Boston,” said Saint-Germain, speculation in his voice.

  “He … didn’t get the work he wanted. He told us he had to look elsewhere, so he left Chicago last year, or he said he did. We haven’t heard from him for months.” She was so forlorn that Saint-Germain could think of nothing to say to her; she recalled herself in a fluster. “Oh, dear. Listen to me! I am so sorry. I shouldn’t impose upon you.” She smoothed her hair back from her brow. “I hope things go better for you in Chicago, and wherever your travels may take you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Well, at least the house is paid for, and there’s a little money left. We’re managing. A lot of my friends lost much more than we did.” She looked away. “In the Crash.”

  “I heard something about it, in Europe, which had its own economic problems,” said Saint-Germain, recalling the catastrophic inflation that overtook Germany just over a decade earlier, and the privations it brought.

  “Muffy Collins’ father killed himself. His company was ruined and he couldn’t stand the shame of it. At least my father’s alive,” said Bronwen. “Just missing.”

  “A terrible time for you,” said Saint-Germain, aware that her distress was still very much with her.

  “It was, and it isn’t finished yet,” she said, not quite understanding, then turned to him, shocked with herself. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say so much.”

  “You have no reason to be sorry,” he assured her. “You have had much to contend with, and those burdens are not always easily borne.”

  “But I shouldn’t have said anything. It isn’t seemly. And certainly not to … you…” She faltered. “What must you be thinking?”

  “Nothing that would disquiet you,” said Saint-Germain, continuing tranquilly, “I have found it is often the way when strangers meet—they exchange confidences they would never impart to nearer acquaintances.”

  Bronwen put her hand to her cheek. “Oh. Yes. I suppose it is like that. How kind of you to say so.” She flashed a look of gratitude at him, even as she addressed him with utmost propriety. “You have been very kind, Mr. Ragoczy. Thank you for listening to my ramblings. But I really must go in now. It’s getting late, and I have chores to attend to. I’ll wish you a good evening now.” She hooked her fingers under Max’ collar. “Come along, Max,” she said crisply, and went back toward the looming house. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she called over her shoulder as she paused before she went in through the rear door.

  “And you, Bronwen O’Neil.” He watched her go, and decided to return to this house later that night. He walked away from the fence, setting a leisurely pace for his reconnoitering. At the crest of the hill he turned to look out over the city and the water. It was a handsome setting, he thought, good for commerce and nicely situated. Another volley of lightning and thunder drove him away from the heights to lower elevations, where he saw more closely packed housing and heard a more volatile mix of voices than he had before. He recognized Italian and Portuguese mixed with English; he moved with care in these streets, knowing he was more alien here than he had been on the hill. His clothes and manner set him apart from the residents of the area as surely as his accent would, so he was guarded, avoiding darkened side-streets, for although the night did not hamper his vision, he was aware of the danger such places could harbor. For the same reason he gave a wide berth to two rowdy groups of young men.

  At midnight, the chimes from a Victorian Gothic church startled him, and he stopped, looking about him. It would take half-an-hour to walk back to Bronwen O’Neil’s house if he went directly there. He looked at his watch, and decided to start back in that general direction, but not to move too quickly; he wanted to arrive at the house about one in the morning when, he hoped, Brownen would be asleep. There were fewer people on the streets now, and they were furtive, exhausted, or tipsy. Saint-Germain watched as the lights in the taverns winked out, and the windows of the houses went dark. He saw occasional autos on the streets, their numbers lessening steadily.

  Saint-Germain reached the O’Neil house shortly after one in the morning; there was a single light glowing beside the front door, but other than that, no other illumination shone. He stood by the fence for a short while, his whole attention on the place, sensing the state of the occupants. When he was satisfied that the three inhabitants were asleep, he vaulted easily over the fence and stepped behind the hedge so he could not be seen from the street As he started toward the house, Max came bounding up to him, tail swinging eagerly, tongue lolling, uttering low whuffs and half-barks to greet a welcome friend. He reached down and stroked the dog’s big head, scratching him gently and reducing Max to imbecilic happiness. When Max was willing to release his guest, Saint-Germain continued
up to the back door and tested the door; it opened with a soft complaint from the hinges. He entered a narrow hallway with a pantry on one side and a mudroom on the other. He went on into the kitchen; it was not modem but everything was in fine order. There was someone asleep in a room just beyond the kitchen, and Saint-Germain assumed that there was still a housekeeper on the premises. He stood still, deepening the woman’s slumber, and then continued on down the corridor to the front of the house. There was a handsome entry in what he recognized as the Federalist style, with a curving staircase leading to the floor above; he climbed it quickly and silently, reaching the gallery without incident He stood for a moment, expanding his senses: there was someone asleep to his left, and to his right; the sleeper to his right was in the grip of a drug of some sort, locked in the arms of Morpheus with such intent determination that Saint-Germain supposed the woman would remain so until well into the morning; he supposed this was Bronwen’s mother. The sleeper on his left was dreaming, and that was much more promising. Saint-Germain went to the left, silent as a shadow, and paused outside the door to take stock of what he perceived. Then, very slowly, he eased the door open and slipped into the room.

  Bronwen O’Neil lay under a satin comforter, her sheet turned back by her arm. She was on her side, facing away from the door, and her hands moved in little, restless starts as she responded to her dream. A few bits of words came from her, nothing truly coherent. Gradually her motions subsided and she lapsed into the stillness of deep sopor, her body still, her breathing slow and regular.

  Saint-Germain stood very still, all his concentration upon her as he lulled her into a kind of trance; only then did he speak. “You are dreaming, Bronwen, dreaming happily. Your dreams are filled with delight, with every joy and delight that you can summon up.” He moved a few steps nearer to her bed. “You are in a place where all your worries have vanished, and all your sadness has ended. You have nothing to distress you, nothing to mar your contentment.” Very carefully he sat beside her on the bed, taking care not to disturb her in any way. “You have put all distress behind you and you have embraced gladness. Your heart is light; you have only that which gratifies your senses and uplifts your heart.” He touched her cheek, as lightly as a feather landing on a soap-bubble. He felt more than heard her sigh, and he moved his hand again. “You are achieving the abiding elation you have sought for so long.” His lips brushed hers as ephemeral and intense as morning mist. He would do nothing that would waken her, and so limited his arousal of her desires to words and insubstantial caresses.

  This time a half-uttered name rode on her breath: “Brad…”

  Her wistfulness told Saint-Germain more than the name itself. He touched her brow lightly, lightly, then said, “Brad is yours again. Everything that stood between you has gone. There are no more doubts, no questions, no reasons left to keep you apart. You are ready to embrace each other, to have the fruition of your devotion.” His voice dropped lower, became more musical. “You have Brad and he is everything you hoped he would be. You have nothing to hold back from him; everything you are is euphoric for him, and that thrills you. He is overjoyed to be with you at last, to love you as he has wanted to love you for so long.” His fingers strayed along the line of her neck, the motion so delicate that it hardly disturbed the lace edging of her nightgown. “You are rapt, blissful. Everything about you is a manifestation of your love, and Brad’s. You relish each moment spent together, and you take courage and strength from your passion.”

  Bronwen’s sleep-softened face flushed as her body responded to her inner visions; her torso arched slightly as if in response to the memories of Brad that had coalesced in her mind.

  “You want to touch Brad, to know him to the limits of your being.” He moved close to her, feeling her emotions well and near their crest. “You will reach what you seek, and you will keep that fulfillment with you as long as you remember this dream.” His lips grazed her neck as she shivered and sighed at the culmination of her dream-induced ecstasy. Then Saint-Germain moved carefully back, whispering, “You will be rested when you wake, and your delight will sustain you. As you face the demands of your life, you will be confident and happy, and you will not be lost in grief, or troubled by what has happened to you in recent times. You will know your bravery and you will trust it.” He got to his feet and went to the door, watching Bronwen as he moved. Going out into the corridor, Saint-Germain took stock of the house before he swiftly and silently descended the stairs and went out through the kitchen, as he had come in.

  Max came up to him, giving happy little yelps that gave way to happy moans as Saint-Germain scratched his head.

  A cough from the housekeeper’s room alerted him and Saint-Germain made for the back door, slipping out into the night to be greeted by a peal of thunder that brought no rain.

  At the first intersection, a policeman approached Saint-Germain, swinging his nightstick and looking narrowly at the black-clad stranger. He stood under the streetlight, his whole attention on this stranger. “Ho-there,” he said with a Boston-Irish brogue as he moved to block Saint-Germain’s progress. “You’re a face I don’t know.”

  “Good evening, Officer,” said Saint-Germain, making no effort to push past him. “I’m pleased that you’ve found me.” His urbane manner did nothing to lessen the policeman’s suspicions.

  “I’m wondering what you’d be doing out at this hour.” He tapped his pocket-watch for emphasis. He appeared to be forty or so, a solid, experienced police officer.

  “I’m afraid,” said Saint-Germain, “that I’ve managed to get myself lost in this fine city.”

  The policeman peered at Saint-Germain. “You’re not from here?”

  “No. I arrived from Europe not long ago and I am making arrangements to go to Chicago,” he said, his manner unrelentingly cordial. “I didn’t have the foresight to bring a map with me, nor a torch—a flashlight.”

  A bell somewhere not far away rang three.

  “Where are you staying?” asked the policeman, clearly doubting almost everything about this stranger.

  “I’m at the King Charles Hotel,” said Saint-Germain, knowing its reputation for excellence.

  “The King Charles, is it?” said the policeman. “Well, sir, if that’s the case, I can escort you back to the King Charles, if you like.”

  “That would be very kind, but I am willing to take myself back if you will give me instructions how I am to find it,” said Saint-Germain.

  The policeman shook his head. “No. I’ll be wanting to see you safe, you being a foreigner newly come to Boston and all.”

  Saint-Germain ducked his head slightly, recognizing the steely intent beneath the genial assurance. “That’s very good of you. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t want to keep you from your duties.”

  “Watching after people in Boston is my duty, sir,” said the policeman most pointedly. “The citizens depend upon me and those like me to keep them safe.” From the tone of his voice, this was intended to warn as much as to inform.

  “And it is fortunate for your city that there are such men to defend them,” said Saint-Germain, adding, “In many cities in Europe the police are more the plunderers than the protectors of the populace. I have been in Spain, where their Civil War has turned the police to bandits; there the people fear the police and flee them.”

  “I read about that,” the policeman admitted grudgingly. “All the more reason to be shut of the place, I’d say.”

  “Well, as you see, I am here,” Saint-Germain said with a hint of an amused smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

  Thunder trundled along the sky, strong enough to rattle a few windows along the dark street.

  “But, begging your pardon, it could be that you’ve learned a trick or two about spoils. It is a thought peculiar to have a foreigner making his way through the streets at this hour.” The policeman slapped his palm with his nightstick to add emphasis to his point.

  “If you mean you’re worried that I migh
t do something to compromise your citizens, I assure you that is not my intention. If I need someone to vouch for me, Hiram Jaynes will probably do so. He is handling my legal affairs just at present.”

  The policeman looked at Saint-Germain in mild surprise. “Hiram Jaynes, you say?”