The Harvest Man

by Alex Grecian

  “Don’t talk to us like that,” Robert said. “You’re saying nice things so we’ll like you and come down from here.”

  “You’re right,” Day said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. But I also think you must be strong lads. I honestly do. And I think you must be brave, as well, to run into the dark wood and keep each other safe for so long.”

  “We don’t mind the wood. It’s quiet here and it’s ours.”

  “You did the right thing, coming here.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Day waited.

  “Don’t you have to go catch the birdie man?”

  “Soon,” Day said. “But right now there are hundreds of other policemen looking for the birdie man. Only we call him the Harvest Man and there are so many of us looking everywhere that he can’t possibly escape. We’ll get him.”

  “You should go and help them look.”

  “I will. But for the moment I’m here with you. I’m not going to go away from you until I know that you’re safe.”

  “We’re safe.”

  “No, Robert, you’re not safe. The Harvest Man can climb trees.”

  There was a sudden flurry of movement from above and more whispering between the boys.

  “He won’t know where to look,” Robert said. “There are lots of trees.”

  “But you’ve dropped a great rock here and there’s evidence of activity under this tree. If I were the Harvest Man, I would climb this tree first and I would find you.”

  Simon screamed.

  “Stop it!” Robert’s voice sounded shaky again. “You’re scaring him! Stop saying things like that!”

  “I’m sorry, Robert. Simon, don’t be frightened. The Harvest Man isn’t going to climb this tree right now because I’m sitting here under it.”

  “He’ll kill you like he killed Mummy and Father.”

  “No, he won’t,” Day said.

  “He’ll catch you and cut you up. You can’t run fast. You have a stick to help you walk like our grandfather did.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a stick anymore. But I have a revolver. I’ll bet your grandfather didn’t have one of those.”

  “Do you really have a revolver?”

  “I do. And if he tries to hurt anybody, I’ll shoot him dead as you please.”

  “You would shoot him?”

  “If he comes near me, I will. Or if he comes near you, or anybody else I care about. I would just as soon shoot him as look at him, if truth be told.”

  “Would you let me shoot him?”

  “No, Robert.”

  “Will you try to talk to him?”

  “I don’t know. It depends, I suppose, on what he’s doing.”

  “Promise you’ll shoot him the moment you see him. Promise you won’t let him get near you.”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “You must. Promise.”

  Day smiled. He realized he was still holding his flask. He corked it and put it away. He pushed himself to his feet and looked with regret at the bits of his smashed and broken cane protruding from under the rock.

  “I’ll make you a bargain,” he said. “If the Harvest Man stands very still when I tell him to and if he doesn’t try to move until my friends and I tie his hands together, then I won’t shoot him. But if he does try to move or tries to come close to me or you or anybody else, then I will shoot him.”

  “Have you ever shot anybody before?”

  “Oh, yes,” Day said. He crossed his fingers behind his back in case the boys could see him. “I’ve shot many villains before. I’m very good with a pistol.”

  “Stay there, please,” Robert said. “We’re coming down now.”

  19

  John Charles Pitt was lying in a hammock under a tree and the tree was spinning, sending the hammock around in great loops through the air. Around, and around, and around again. He smiled. Or he thought he might be smiling. Nothing seemed entirely real. His body was far away from him, but he felt secure. The force of movement didn’t lift him from his hammock, didn’t make him feel he might fall out and plummet to the ground. It was like an anchor weighing on him. An anchor in a tree? He could smell the vaguely antiseptic odor of the leaves as they fluttered down about him. He could feel the sun on his face, hot, burning him. He worried that he might be getting a sunburn on his cheeks. From far away, he could hear a troubadour singing some old popular song. Something he’d heard before, but couldn’t place. He listened to the tune, strained to hear the lyrics. And as he listened he felt himself beginning to wake up.

  He hadn’t realized he was asleep.

  • • •

  THE HARVEST MAN SANG as he worked:

  I heard the rippling brooklet sing among the poplar trees

  I heard the willows whispering unto the evening breeze

  Unto the evening breeze

  It always surprised the Harvest Man to hear his own voice, deeper and richer than it ought to be. So he rarely spoke to his parents while he worked on them. But when he sang, it gave him a thrill. At first he had sung nursery rhymes to them or hymns half remembered from his brief time as a choirboy. But those soon gave way to parlor songs, which were far more appropriate sounding when one considered how his voice had changed. He tried not to think about why it had changed or how it had changed. He concentrated on remembering the lyrics.

  Again I looked on the old old place

  Again I saw my darling’s face

  How apropos. He squinted at the man on the bed, wishing he might see his darling father’s face, wishing his choice of song might be prophetic. Nothing so far. The man remained a stranger, his features unfamiliar. The Harvest Man made another cut, used his long curved blade to take off the tip of the man’s nose.

  He could hear the woman moving in the next room, struggling with the ropes that bound her to her bed, but he ignored her. It wasn’t her turn yet.

  Again we wandered by the stream

  Again we wandered by the stream

  He sliced off the man’s left eyebrow and repositioned it. His father had often worn a quizzical expression and the eyebrow looked better slightly slanted across his forehead, pointed at the bridge of his nose. It was slick with blood and slid slowly down his face. Annoyed, the Harvest Man plucked it off the man’s cheek and poked it back into place. This time it stayed put.

  It was a dream

  It was a dream

  Again I looked on the old old place

  Again I saw my darling’s face

  But he didn’t see his darling father’s face. He steeled his resolve. If it were going to be easy to find his parents, he would have found them by now. He was being tested to see if he was worthy of their love, if he deserved to have them back. He nodded to himself and resumed singing, taking comfort from the melody. He made tiny cuts in the man’s lower lip, pulling the flesh apart as he went, tearing and repositioning, making the mouth wider, exposing the lower row of teeth. The man stirred and moved his head. Just a little bit, but enough to cause a cut to go too deep. Annoyed, the Harvest Man adjusted by making a corresponding slice on the other side of the man’s face. He sat back and examined his handiwork, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t only the new cuts he hadn’t meant to make. The bone structure was wrong.

  Perhaps it was just the ears. Maybe they needed to be adjusted.

  It was a dream

  It was a dream

  Again we wandered by the stream

  It was a dream

  It was a dream

  The right ear complete, he moved around to the other side and cut the man’s left earlobe off. He sliced the ear half away from the scalp, pushed it up, molded it to the skull so that it looked smaller. He tossed the unused portion of ear over his shoulder, and heard it hit the floor. He sang louder.

  I saw
the wandering streamlet flow down to the cold grey sea

  I saw the bending willows bow in welcome over me

  In welcome over me

  Again I listened to breeze and bird

  Again my darling’s voice I heard

  The man made a noise. He grunted and one of his eyelids fluttered. The Harvest Man smiled at him before remembering the mask hid his features from view. He lowered his voice to a murmur and bent his head as if he might kiss the man with his beak.

  We kissed beneath the moon’s soft beam

  We kissed beneath the moon’s soft beam

  This was not his father. He knew that now. And if this wasn’t his father, then the woman in the next room could not be his mother. Once again, he had failed to find them.

  It was a dream

  It was a dream

  He sucked a deep breath in through his teeth and tried not to be angry with the man and the woman who were not his parents. The strangers. He had gone with strangers again, something he had been told never to do. Still, perhaps the man hadn’t meant to lie to him, hadn’t intended the Harvest Man to mistake him for his father. He calmed himself with the ballad, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the lyrics.

  Again I listened to breeze and bird

  Again my darling’s voice I heard

  But it wasn’t going to work. He felt the anger coming and he raised his voice, sang louder and louder, began to cut at the man’s face without rhyme or reason now, using the blade to punctuate the syllables of the song, destroying the work he had done, no longer caring what became of his canvas. Another night wasted, another dead end, and it was his fault, his fault, the man’s fault, his father’s fault. The man had misled him and why would he do that when all the Harvest Man wanted was to love him didn’t he want to be loved and where was he hiding itwasadreamcomeoutcomeoutstophidingfrommeitwasadreambutirememberitanditwasrealandwekissedbeneaththemoonssoftbeamandyoulovedme.

  • • •

  JOHN CHARLES PITT CAME fully awake and his face was on fire. There was no sun, no tree, no hammock. There was a creature with a beak and two huge round eyes, but the man could barely see it through a haze of blood and pain. A candle flickered somewhere nearby, casting long dancing shadows of the bird creature as it bent over him. It was screaming at him, shouting the words of some drawing room ballad. John Charles opened his mouth to scream, but he felt his lips tear open and he tasted blood. He gasped and blinked the blood out of his eyes and saw the creature’s hand sweep down, felt fresh fire in his cheek, saw the hand raise up and slash down again and his throat erupted with pain and he couldn’t breathe. He was choking, coughing up warm liquid that he knew could only be blood.

  And still the creature screamed its song at him.

  The tree shimmered back into view and the sky opened up and he was drifting away on his hammock again, being carried away from the grotesque thing with the beak and its horrible cry. He briefly wondered about Eugenia Merrilow, wondered where she was and whether she had a hammock of her own. Then John Charles Pitt relaxed and let himself drift and the song faded away on the breeze.

  It was a dream

  It was a dream

  20

  Robert stood beside him and steadied him with a hand on his back while Day reached up and plucked little Simon off the trunk of the tree. He gave the boy an awkward hug and set him on the ground. Robert brushed the leaves and bark from his brother’s shirt, then took Simon’s hand. The two of them looked up at Day with fear and hope in their eyes. He tried to smile, but was afraid he might be grimacing at them. His leg hurt more than it had that morning and he wondered if it would ever improve.

  “Let’s sit for a moment,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “We don’t mind,” Robert said.

  Day went back to the rock they’d tried to drop on his head and lowered himself onto it. Simon let go of Robert’s hand and came and perched on the side of the rock, almost touching Day. Robert stood nearby, watching his brother, watching Day.

  “Is that your walking stick?”

  “Yes, Robert,” Day said. “It used to be my walking stick.”

  “We broke it with our rock?”

  Day looked down at the shattered pieces of his cane. The bulk of it was probably beneath the rock he was sitting on, but the tip and handle were far away from each other, surrounded by splintered bits of wood.

  “Yes,” he said. “You did an excellent job of it. If that had been the bad man’s head, you would have stopped him for good, I think.”

  “We’re sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it. A cane is easily replaced. You two are not.”

  “When will you take us home?”

  Day sucked on his top teeth and looked away into the trees. “I don’t think I can take you home, Robert.”

  “You’re going to take us to the orphanage, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I want to be honest with you. I don’t know what will happen now. Your parents . . . Well, your parents are gone.”

  “We know. We saw.”

  “You’ll have new parents.”

  “We don’t want new parents, sir. All due respect.”

  “Of course.” Day sighed. “Of course you don’t. This isn’t a situation anyone would want. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have seen what you saw.”

  “Will you take us home with you?”

  Day rocked back and looked at Robert, his eyes wide. He turned his head and saw little Simon was staring down at his shoes. A single bright teardrop reflecting a spot of moonlight fell from his face to the top of his shoe, where it disappeared.

  “I don’t think that’s the way this sort of thing works, Robert. I don’t know that it’s a possibility. Even if I had room at my house for you, I don’t know that . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Robert said. He spoke quickly, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said—”

  “No, no, it’s not that I wouldn’t, you know.”

  “Just take us somewhere. Just let’s get out of the wood.”

  “You know, it’s awfully late now. I believe I will take you home with me after all.” Day leaned forward, but didn’t stand. “I’m told there’s more room there than I thought. Robert, you said you caught a glimpse of the Harvest . . . of the birdie man. You saw his real face beneath the mask.”

  “Only for a moment, sir.”

  “Could you describe him for me?”

  “I don’t think so. He looked sort of like a wee man, but different ’cause he wasn’t, you know.”

  “Oh, Robert, he is a man,” Day said. “It was a man who did those awful things. And we’ll catch him, I swear it. But I could use your help.”

  “I don’t know how to describe him.”

  Day thought for a minute. The boys were still and silent, waiting to discover what their lives had in store for them. At last, Day smiled. He looked around and spotted a stout branch, knocked loose from the canopy above. He pointed at it and Robert ran, picked it up, and brought it over to the rock. Day took it and poked it at the ground to test its strength. He stripped the remaining leaves and twigs from it and put his weight on it and stood. The top was rough and hurt the palm of his hand, but he thought he could probably saw it off and file it down and it would do just fine.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Can you draw?”

  “I’m not very good at drawing, sir. And Simon’s not, either.”

  “I am,” Simon said. “I’m quite good at it.”

  “You’re not either, Simon. Not the way Mr Day means, at least.”

  “I can draw anything.”

  “You can draw dragons and you can draw wee people in tunnels. You can’t draw what a person looks like just to show someone else. That’s what Mr Day means, isn’t it, sir?”

  Day nodded.

  “Oh, well, that,” Simon said. �
�No, I can’t do that so well.”

  “Then what if you described the birdie man to someone else and they drew him for you?”

  “Who?”

  “I know someone who draws very well indeed. And if you tell her what the birdie man looked like, I think she might be able to create a picture of him for us. And then we’ll be better able to catch him.”

  “We could try.”

  “Good man.” Day clapped his hand on Robert’s shoulder and the boy flinched, but didn’t pull away. Day nodded at him. He turned and smiled at the little boy still sitting on the rock and Simon rose and took his hand.

  “You’ll like this artist,” Day said. “Her name is Fiona and she’s very nice. We’ll go see her first thing. You just tell her what you saw and she’ll figure it out for you.”

  “We’ll try our best, Mr Day.”

  “I know you will,” Day said. “You’re good boys.”

  Robert walked a little ahead of them and Day could see the boy’s shoulders shake as he silently cried. Day bowed his head and kept a tight hold of Simon’s hand and let Robert lead them out of the forest.

  21

  McKraken gave Day a sheepish smile at the front door, clearly embarrassed that he had been caught napping on the job. The retired inspector leaned down and asked the boys their names, asked Day how long they’d be there in the house.

  “I’m not really sure,” Day said. “The night, at least.”

  “Well, you’ll be safe here,” McKraken said.

  Simon shook his head. “No. The birdie man can go anywhere he wants to.”

  “Not as long as I’m guarding this door, he won’t.”

  “You stay here all the time?”

  “Most of the time. I have to go to my own home sometimes to sleep and change my clothes.”

  “That’s when he’ll come, then.”

  “I only do that during the daylight hours when there are plenty of people about. Baddies tend to avoid places where there’s lots of people. When it’s quiet and lonely in a place, that’s when the bugs come out.”