Harvest Home Part 15

"You saw the Ghost of Soakes's Lonesome?"

I nodded, sliding my plate away and leaning back in my chair. The time seemed so right for it, the ill-shapen moon, the quietude-a good night for a ghost story. I recited the details of my encounter with the gray figure on the embankment, building it up in pitch and fervor, making it all misterioso-the strangely twirling figure, the flapping garments, the red, grinning mouth. I made no mention of the bones in the hollow tree, thinking that that part was too real and grisly for even a ghost-story session. Kate was enthralled; her father, who spoke only Truth, had actually seen a ghost.

After I finished my strange recital, she and Beth cleared the things from the table, leaving the hurricane lamp, and I moved into one of the larger, more comfortable terrace chairs. I could hear their voices inside, talking as they rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher. The refrigerator door opened and closed several times; then Beth asked Kate to copy out the chicken-and-crab recipe and take it over to the Widow's. Maggie called through the sun-porch window beyond the hedge and she and Beth exchanged a few words. Presently I heard the Invisible Voice relating more d.i.c.kensian adventures. The dishwasher went on, and the garbage disposal, distinct but muted. When Beth came out with the coffee things on a tray, I went in and brought out the little cask from the table and two gla.s.ses from the cupboard. The cask was a beautifully made thing, carefully coopered, and bound with iron hoops at either end; a small wooden peg served as a stopper. I broached it tentatively, then drew it out. Tipping the opening to a gla.s.s, I poured out some of the liquid, moving the gla.s.s so the sides became coated. It was extremely viscid, with a soft yellow color. I sniffed; it had a pleasant aroma, rather like oranges or some other citrus fruit. The taste was sweetish, but with the tang of a cordial. I filled the other gla.s.s half full, handed it to Beth, then finished filling my own. She tried some with the tip of her tongue and p.r.o.nounced it good, and we alternated sips of it with the coffee.

"What's Robert reading these days?" she asked.

"I think it's A Tale of Two Cities A Tale of Two Cities. I keep hearing 'Carton,' and 'guillotine.'"

We finished our coffee, then continued sipping the Widow's mead and enjoying the evening. The yellow bird in the locust tree at the front of the house made muted chirruping sounds, and I thought with what constancy it clung to its nest. Inside the kitchen, the dishwasher clicked, signaling the end of its various phases of mechanical ablutions. From all directions came night sounds, those serene and tranquil noises that have a lulling and most satisfactory effect on the senses. As we sat drinking and talking quietly, a breeze sprang up, carrying the gray barbecue smoke off across the lawn, rustling the leaves of the beech tree. The leaves had continued to fall in profusion, and even as I watched, here and there a current of air dislodged them from the branches and wafted them away.

"Have to rake tomorrow."

"Mm. Worthy can do it, can't he?"

I didn't say anything. Beth pointed up at the sky. "Look- a shooting star." I caught the faint silver parabola as it swished a small arc through the sky. It seemed vaguely unreal, impossible for something to travel so far, so quickly.

"Make a wish," Beth said.

"I did." I watched her light a cigarette. "Did you?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"If I tell, it won't come true." She blew out a stream of smoke. "It couldn't anyway. It's impossible."

"Nothing is."

"I wished Mother were here."

"Your mother?"

"I wished she could have seen us. Seen Kate. Seen our house. All of it." She was sitting only a short distance away; I put out my hand for hers, and she took it and bridged the gap. I felt the rea.s.suring pressure of her fingers on the back of my hand.

"What did you wish?" she said.

"I wished for a straight nose."

"I love your nose."

Next door, the arm was lifted from the record, and the Invisible Voice fell silent. I waited for the sound of the window being closed, but it must have remained open, for I did not hear it. The sky was ablaze with stars, and as I gazed up at them they seemed unnaturally bright, as though on this night they had somehow come closer to the earth. I picked out the constellations I recognized, the Big and Little Dippers, and the North Star, and, low over the cornfield, Mars glowing red and war-like. I wondered where Orion might be, with Betelgeuse and Rigel; then I thought of the prophetic child, the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the red pointing finger.

I lifted the cask again and poured from it into the gla.s.ses, first Beth's, then mine. I was experiencing a marvelous feeling of relaxation and contentment, and I was fully conscious of the night, of our being together, of this corner of our small domain. I did not speak, but continued enjoying what I sensed was some fleeting moment of comprehension. I felt supersentient-and supersensual. I felt I had never loved Beth more than I did at this moment, had never felt so close, so near to her, not merely touching her hand, but completely and utterly joined to her. How extraordinary she was, my wife. How extraordinary her being. I had a supremely clear sense of who I was, who she was, who we were together. We continued sitting in silence, and I was noticing how the bark of the beech tree seemed to stand out with remarkable clarity when I heard the sound of music. I thought immediately that Robert had put another record on, and was about to make some remark about his selection of what sounded to me like a flute solo, when I realized the sound was coming in the other direction, from the cornfield below the meadow. It rose on the breeze above the sounds of the crickets and peepers, a light roulade of notes, silvery and melodious, faint at first, then taking on a definite form and melody. There was magic in the sound, a kind of mysterious, siren strain gratifying to the ear, alluring and enticing with the plaintive quality of the shepherds' pipes we had heard in the hills of Greece.

I glanced at Beth; she sat with her eyes closed, enjoying but not questioning it. There was something absolutely and completely pagan about the proliferation of notes, not wild, but primitive. It was sinuous and serpentine, winding itself through the air and breeze, seductively mixing with the sough of the leaves and the gra.s.s, the rustle of corn leaves. It was strange. It was magical. It was, I suddenly realized, an experience-the kind of experience, perhaps, that the Widow had hinted at.

Sounds were added. I could detect a second flute, coming from another part of the field. There was the faint tympanic flutter of a tambourine with its fluted disks, and a delicate bell-like chime that made me think of the finger bells of Balinese dancers. A delightful, musical tinkle, whose charm rose in support of the winding flute. We were hearing the pipes of Pan, and at any moment across our lawn would troop horned and goat-legged creatures in the moonlight, satyrs at a wine festival. I tried to comprehend what was happening. This was no impromptu village concert, but a testament of some kind. Then I thought of the honey drink, the cask of mead. It was drugged. Sitting on my terrace, my wife beside me, I felt as if I were being transported, and if this was so, I was utterly willing for it to happen. If it was an experience, I willingly gave myself up to it, tried to open myself to it, as the old lady had suggested; tried to become part of it.

Then, as mysteriously, as magically as it had begun, it ended. The tremolo of the flutes intoned a last strain, then died; there was a brief tintinnabular clink of the tambourine, and a final sound, one I did not recognize, as if some sort of instrument of bones were being used, a tiny subsequence of clicking noises; then all became still again. I breathed deeply, and very softly, not to upset the delicate equilibrium that had balanced within me. I stole a look at Beth. At some time during the playing, our hands had parted, and hers had gone to her breast where it lay, pale and immobile, the fingers curled at the base of her throat. I waited for some movement, some kind of recognition, but she remained immobile, eyes closed, the trace of a smile on her lips, child-like. Was she asleep? Had she heard? Or had I imagined it? I looked up at her as she rose.

"Did-"

Leaning, she laid her fingertips across my lips. I glimpsed her eyes bright in the moonlight before the sweep of her hair fell across them; I knew the answer. I had not imagined it. I stood, moving close and putting my arms around her. She was still holding her gla.s.s, and she lifted it and drained off the contents. I watched the slender column of pale throat as the liquid went down, and I could taste the liquor on her lips as I kissed them. Never had she felt more desirable, never had I wanted her more. Yet, and I realized this fully, it was not merely desire, the loin l.u.s.t we often joked about, but a profound, deep-seated craving to continue the experience on another, on a physical level.

"Let's go to bed," I whispered hoa.r.s.ely. She made a little acquiescent sound in my ear, then stepped away from me, pressing me back in the chair.

"No?" I asked.

"Yes. In a little while. Come to me. I want to see to Kate, and then-"

"Mn?"

"I want to-be ready." I saw the line of dark lashes as she dropped them. Getting ready was one of the little bits of modesty about her. She went away softly, as though not to break the spell. I picked up my gla.s.s again, and drank. I knew now why the cask had been brought, and why the Widow had cautioned not too early for bed. I knew tonight was meant to have a special significance, to evoke a particular awareness in Beth and myself, both separately and jointly.

And it was not over; I was certain there was to be more to the 'experience.'

The night seemed to expand around me, to encompa.s.s and envelop me. The deeper colors of the chrysanthemums grew richer, more vibrant in the moonlight, like the colors in old tapestries. The coppery sheen of the beech leaves became brighter, hammered from precious metals. The sky pulsed and throbbed, evoking a low, touchable canopy, bejeweled, lighted by a globe I could at will reach up and extinguish. I was feeling a rush of intensity I did not understand, but did not care to; to have it was enough. I was aware; I was at one with my surroundings, with sky and earth and light and sound, with trees, flowers, corn, with all of nature.

Then it began, the rest of it.

I saw a figure. I did not move even a fraction as it appeared. I was right; the music had not been the end of it. It was a male figure, and I supposed it had come out of the cornfield, for it waited just at the edge, in a dark strip of soil between the meadow and the beginning of the corn. It stood enormously erect, wearing some kind of garments, though I could not perceive what they might be. I say the figure was enormous, for so it seemed, larger than any human I had ever seen. It took first one step, then another, and came into the full light of the moon.

It might have been a spirit of vegetation-I remember that the idiot trademark of the Jolly Green Giant immediately crossed my mind. Yet there was nothing humorous about it. It was deadly serious, earnest, real. In all its vividness and aliveness, it stood there, the embodiment of vigor and of growing; not demoniacal, but a benign spirit. Now I saw that the arms and legs were sheathed in tied-on bunches of straw, while the torso and lower quarters were girdled in corn leaves. A tight-fitting helmet-shaped cap of leaves covered the head, and the face itself was hidden behind a large straw mask. The expression formed by the angled eye slits, and that of the mouth, was again one of benevolence, the slightly vacant yet obtrusively concentrated expression of ancient Greek sculpture, a look at once bland yet enigmatic: the unknowable. The figure took the cla.s.sic stance of contrapposto contrapposto, the forward leg engaged, shoulders and hips in opposition. Thus it stood, nothing more-for the moment.

It was the figure from the corn quilt, of course. The Harvest Lord; but not a representation or facsimile. He brought his arms up very slowly, a gesture I found both equivocal and absolute: a wide, encompa.s.sing movement, as though within the curve of his arms lay revelation. With arms outstretched, he bowed, acknowledging me-a somewhat theatrical bow, I thought. I told myself it must be Justin Hooke, yet I was not sure. I looked for a glimpse of golden hair at the back of the neck, but could see none. He straightened again, and lowered one arm. With the other hand he made dumb gestures, pantomiming a flow of words from behind the mask. Then he turned slightly and another gesture indicated the raising of a curtain or drapery, behind which lay the cornfield, which he now indicated in a single wide sweeping arc. Then the arm came down, and he turned to his right.

My attention was drawn to where he looked, and I now saw another figure some distance away along the edge of the field. I had not seen this one appear, either; it was simply there. A female figure, hidden from top to toe under some sort of luminous veil. She remained immobile under the silvery shroud, facing me, then turned toward the male figure. I waited, wondering if they would approach each other simultaneously or if one would go to the other. Then I saw it was the woman who waited, the man who went, advancing to her slowly, ceremoniously, and simply. When he had got to within three or four feet of her, he lay down, couching himself in the short gra.s.s, one knee up, resting on one locked arm. For a moment neither moved; then the woman's pale draperies parted and an arm appeared. In a slow gesture it revealed itself, the hand supple, graceful, the ringers relaxed, slightly bent, the forefinger extended. She leaned her shoulders slightly forward, and now the man raised his free arm and, with his pointing finger, awaited her touch. The s.p.a.ce between the two fingers grew smaller, and as they closed I saw a quick flash, a single white sputter of light that leaped between them. It was the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo's awakening of Adam, the divine spark given from Jehovah. But that was a fresco, this was real. The kinetic gift of the vital life force. The man got to his feet, bowed to the woman, to me, then returned to where he had originally appeared. I turned my eyes back to the figure under the veil. Her hand and arm had been withdrawn beneath the draperies again, the disguise a.s.sumed again.

Who was she? Who was she meant meant to be? to be?

I had thought at first it must be the Corn Maiden. But, observing her, I realized she had come in a form different from what I expected, something other than what I had seen in the quilt. I sensed it was not she but someone else, someone whose ident.i.ty I was supposed to guess. The sphinx. In her very being lay the conundrum. Tell me who I am, she seemed to say. She remained motionless for a period, as if giving me time to make my guess; then she lifted her hands outward from her sides, and they met slowly over her head, raising the veil as the covered fingers touched above. I was both shocked and excited as I realized that under the veil she was completely naked, and I could see the gleam of her thighs, pale and marmoreal in the moonlight, with the dark, mysterious cleft between.

I thought she must remove the veil. I thought she must invite me, make some gesture, some signal that I was to come to her, to take the place of the other figure, but when the hem of the drapery had lifted almost to the waist, it immediately dropped again. I rose and took a step forward, revealing myself. I looked to the place where the man had been standing, but he had disappeared. Then the woman figure inclined her head beneath the veil, posed for an instant, turned, and stepped from the gra.s.s onto the strip of dark earth, into the shadows of the cornstalks, then into the corn itself.

She was gone.

I ran partway down the lawn, then stopped. I was not meant to follow. Something had been revealed to me, not only the woman's charms, but also some deeper, metaphysical equation I could not solve. Watching the field, I heard the dry bone sound I had heard earlier, followed by a short flute pa.s.sage, brief but effective, like the final coda in the Strauss Till Eulenspiegel Till Eulenspiegel. A beguiling strain, yet somehow mocking, as though the whole thing had been a game, some little divertiss.e.m.e.nt for an autumn evening.

All was silence. I turned and went back up the lawn to the terrace. I found the peg for the cask, fitted it in, picked up the gla.s.ses, and carried them and the keg into the house. I rinsed out the gla.s.ses and set them in the rack. I let the cold water run on my hand; the flow had an incredible feeling to it. I turned off the tap and put the cask on the topmost shelf of one of the cupboards. I locked the kitchen door, switched off the lights, went through the hall, checked that the front door was locked, and went upstairs. I stopped and listened at Kate's door, then opened it softly. She was asleep. I closed it again, and crossed the hall to our bedroom. The door was ajar. I went in to find Beth in the rocking chair by the window. Her hand was raised in what appeared to be a gesture, and at first I thought she was motioning to someone; then I saw she was only reaching for the ta.s.sel of the shade. She drew it down, and her hand dropped into her lap. She spoke softly, calling me darling, and rose to extinguish the only light, the small one on the bureau. She disrobed and got onto the bed, which she had turned down. She was waiting for me.

The moonlight streamed through the front windows, enough to undress by. I was careful with my clothes, folding them and placing them on the chair, my shoes beneath, and when I turned again Beth drew a little breath as I went to her, and I thought of a bride on her wedding night, waiting to submit to the demands of her spouse. But when I took her it was no virgin I took, but a woman, versed and capable, as accomplished a lover as any man could hope for. We were together as we had never been before, not even in the days of the Rue du Bac in Paris, a meeting of two people that was not only physical but spiritual as well, and if ever we knew one another, it was on that night when we had drunk from the Widow Fortune's little wooden cask and the flutes had played.

Afterward, while Beth slept, I rose again and went into the bathroom. From the window over the radiator, I could look down onto the terrace, the lawn, the meadow, and the cornfield, all moon-flooded, and it seemed that I could see one of the figures standing there again, where it had stood before. Not the woman; the man-a dark shape, forming the figure of straw and corn, waiting. For what? I told myself that now I was really imagining, but I have since thought differently. Was it he, truly, the Harvest Lord?

I looked a moment longer, trying to make out the figure, and then it was gone. If it had returned at all. Or if it had ever been there. Getting back into bed, settling myself under the sheet, my head on the pillow, my arm around Beth's shoulders, I pictured again the mysterious figure of the woman. Who was she? Or, rather, who was she meant meant to be? I recalled the Widow's words about the riddle of the sphinx; now I had been provided with my own riddle to solve. I remember that the last thing I thought of were the old lady's words: to be? I recalled the Widow's words about the riddle of the sphinx; now I had been provided with my own riddle to solve. I remember that the last thing I thought of were the old lady's words: A man must learn to discover what is possible. A man must learn to discover what is possible.

Then I fell into a dreamless sleep.

PART THREE:

t.i.tHING DAY.

16.

One afternoon the following week I could hear the church clock striking five as I cleaned my brushes and palette and put my paints away. Then I rode my bike into the village to send off to my New York gallery some Polaroid prints of the bridge painting. I went into the post office, where Myrtil Clapp, the postmistress's a.s.sistant, sold me a stamp. Attaching it, I saw the postmistress herself, making tea from a singing kettle on a hot plate set on some file cabinets at the rear. Beyond, in the back room, I could see Constable Zalmon, feet propped up on his desk, smoking his corncob pipe and thumbing through a copy of Field and Stream Field and Stream.

Tamar Penrose glanced up from her tea things and gave me one of her smoky looks. I lifted a hand in a brief salute, dropped the envelope into the slot, and went out.

I checked my watch against the steeple clock, noting the spasmodic activity around the Common as I crossed it. Mrs. Green went into the library with an armload of books. Jim Minerva loaded groceries into the back seat of his Volkswagen and drove off, heading south along Main Street. A farm wagon creaked by, Will Jones seated in it with the reins drooping between his hands. He pulled up outside the Rocking Horse and went in. With tinkling bells, the sheep baaed and moved from my path as I headed for the church on the opposite side.

Some of the younger village girls were going up the steps, and through the open vestibule doors I could hear the soft lilt of organ music from inside. Coming up onto the sidewalk, I saw Mrs. Buxley hurrying from the beauty parlor; Margie Perkin had been at her hair. She dithered her fingers as she hastened to greet me.

"Lovely day," she said, as though she herself had fashioned it. And how was I, how were Beth and Kate, and how were my day," she said, as though she herself had fashioned it. And how was I, how were Beth and Kate, and how were my lovely lovely paintings? Inside, choir practice began, and the bell-like sounds of the girls' sopranos and altos floated out through the doors. paintings? Inside, choir practice began, and the bell-like sounds of the girls' sopranos and altos floated out through the doors.

"Lovely sound, isn't it? Our young girls are rehearsing for t.i.thing Day. You'll be coming, surely." sound, isn't it? Our young girls are rehearsing for t.i.thing Day. You'll be coming, surely."

I said I hadn't heard about t.i.thing Day, and she explained that next Sunday would be a special service when the village offered their token corn t.i.thes to the church. An impressive ceremony; we were certain to find it rewarding.

"See you in church." She dithered her fingers again and went into the vestibule. Amys Penrose came along, pushing his broom at the edge of the roadway, stopping when he got abreast of me to touch a finger to his hat brim. I waved to the Widow, whose buggy went creaking by on the far side of the Common. I had not seen her to talk to since the "experience," the weekend before, and I was anxious to hear what she would have to say about the epiphany of the Harvest Lord and the unknown lady. With rattling wheels and rusty springs, the mare clip-clopping along the dusty roadway, she, too, headed south. In a moment, Kate came riding her horse out of the north end of Main Street; she went flying onto the Common where the terrified sheep moved from her path in a huddled, woolly ma.s.s. I called to her not to disturb them; she waved and rode on.

"What's this t.i.thing Day Mrs. Buxley's been telling me of?" I asked Amys.

"More nonsense," came the succinct reply. He spat, his customary mark of disapproval. He wiped his mouth on his faded sleeve. "Could use a beer. I'm spittin' cotton."

I could take a hint. I offered to join him at the Rocking Horse for a drink, and, leaving the pile of leaves he had swept up in the roadway, he shouldered his broom and we went along to the tavern. The room was crowded, smoke layered the air, and there was the agreeable hum of voices as the locals gathered in groups and exchanged the end-of-the-day news; behind the bar, Bert was busy filling orders. We pushed our way through to find a place in the corner at the end of the bar. I let Amys order his beer, then asked for my usual Scotch-and-soda.

Will Jones leaned against the center of the bar, talking to Fred Minerva, Ferris Ott, and several others. They nodded at me when I lifted my gla.s.s to them. As Harvest Home drew nearer, there was a feeling of camaraderie among the farmers, and from all sides news was furnished, items for discussion. Item: Old Mrs. Mayberry had died. Item: Mrs. Oates, the undertaker's wife, had given birth to a boy. The village population was thus rebalanced. Item: What was Worthy Pettinger acting so all-fired cranky for these days: didn't he know when he was well-off? Fred Minerva just wished his Jim could've got a crack at being Harvest Lord. Item: Justin Hooke's rooster. Item: The weather. If it snowed before the second Wednesday in November, it would be a hard winter. Item: The hard winter of fourteen years ago. Item: The bad one. Item: The last Great Waste.

These topics variously reached our ears as I downed my drink and Amys his beer. When we had finished, I asked Bert for two more, then signaled him to pour a round for Fred, Will, Ferris, and the rest. They all thanked me, and when they had emptied their gla.s.ses they trooped out, Ferris Ott discussing with Fred Minerva the bad luck he'd had all year.

I turned back to Amys and contemplated him for a minute, then leaned toward him, adopting a careless tone but choosing my words carefully. "Tell me, Amys, how long have you been ringing the bell?"

"Eight ropes, maybe nine. That's the length of time it'll take to wear a rope out. Maybe six, seven years a rope, dependin' on how many's born, how many dies."

"When you ring, is there a difference-I mean for a man and a woman?"

"Sure. For a man you got to ring three times two, for a woman it's three times three." He took a long swig of beer, savoring it as it went down. "Hey, Bert, gimme some o' them nuts you got back there."

"Three times three?" I leaned closer. "Is that the way you rang for Gracie Everdeen?"

"h.e.l.l, no," he replied in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "No bell was never rung for her. I'd've done it if they'd let me, but they wouldn't. Not them them. No bell tolled for Gracie. Not thrice times thrice, not thrice times nothin'. I rang her into the world, but there was none to ring her out." He rolled a cigarette and lighted it. "Oh, Gracie Everdeen." He blew out a raspy stream of smoke, then, dirge-like, returned to the topic of the lost Gracie.

"The Coombe never bred a finer beauty than Grace was. Nor a sweeter one. Sweet and delicate she was, a reg'lar pony. There wasn't a fellow in the village didn't hanker for her. She grew up tall, but slim, and pretty as a man could hope to see." He pressed my arm to convince me of the truth of his words. "I mean, she was pretty pretty. It was nip and tuck who was gonter win her."

"Roger Penrose?"

"Ayuh. 'Twas the end of nip and tuck then. Roger'd been goin' with Tamar Penrose, who was one of them blamed Penrose cousins. Durin' that time, the ladies voted and the honor come to Roger-he was poor enough, but they balloted and chose him for Harvest Lord. Tamar was mighty proud, thinkin' Roger was bound to ask her for the Corn Lady. But he didn't. One year went by, then two, and still hadn't asked her. Hadn't asked any girl. Now Gracie's bloomin' like a flower, and-did I say was pretty?-I did and she was. Lemme think a minute. Roger's Harvest Lord, and there's pretty Gracie. He takes her for a ride in the Widow Fortune's buggy, and when they come back, Gracie's been asked. Everyone thought that was fine, 'ceptin' for Tamar, who's got her nose out of joint, bein' left out-Tamar's a sulky creature. But there's Gracie, just-just radiatin'. Now-where was I? Yes. Roger's Harvest Lord, Gracie's Corn Maiden. Roger's got two years or so to go. The Widow's educatin' Gracie in her duties. Anyone who talks about her's got only the best things to say. Oh, wasn't she lovely, light and delicate as air-yes, she was. Well, sir, next thing you know, Roger's give her a ring."

"Engagement?"

"So to speak. He couldn't afford no fancy job. Then the banns was posted and read out. It's not often a Harvest Lord'll marry his Corn Lady-'ceptin' like Justin and Sophie, which come as somethin' of a shock. But Roger's decided on little Gracie. Then Mrs. Everdeen puts her foot down, and revokes the banns. Says Gracie's got to give Roger back his ring. Then, after a while, Gracie starts actin' funny. Long about the time she quit the fields and put on shoes, she just seemed to go haywire. Did all sorts of crazy things."

I motioned Bert for another beer. "Like what?"

Amys blew his nose and wiped his eyes. "Well, she stopped combin' her hair, for one thing. Took to wearin' the same dress day in day out. Sa.s.sed the Widow. Hitched her f.a.n.n.y at the pastor. At Midsummer's Eve, she slipped a whole pie under Mrs. Buxley's rear end just afore Mrs. Buxley sat down. Rolled her eyes at one of them Soakes boys. Roger was plenty mad. Everyone was. 'Cept me; I just felt sorry for her. None of this happened right off, mind you-'twas more gradual-like. One Spring Festival, she fought with the boys in the street. Right out there where you put down them Soakeses, she took on Ferris Ott and laid him in the dust. Then when Roger bought his horse-"

"The one he broke his neck on?"

"Ayuh. She challenged Roger to a race, and she won. Now, n.o.body could beat Roger's horse-but Grace did. Folks said she stole some of the Widow's herbs and put it in the horse's oats. Roger was so mad he says to Gracie to give his ring back. Then she disgraced the whole village-or so they they think." think."

"How so?" I sipped my drink. Amys dragged on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, swigged his beer.

"Well, sir, you can see it, surely. She'd become a terror. Barefooted, wild hair, screamin' and yellin', puttin' her nose up, swearin'. Folks were angry. She was the Corn Maiden. Roger'd given her the honor and she didn't seem to care. There wasn't nothin' she wouldn't do to shock folks or make them think ill of her. Then come Agnes Fair, and that was the end. Roger was bound to win the pole-shinny, but Grace denied him the pleasure. She loses him the wrestlin', too. Next, she has words with Ewan Demin', and then she's gone."

"She left."

"Ayuh."

"Where'd she go?"

He shook his head, drank, wiped his chin. "n.o.body knows. Left on Agnes Fair day and didn't come back until almost two years later. But it was too late. Roger said if Grace was goin' to act that way, Tamar could be Corn Maiden, and come the play, Tamar was crowned in her place. But what most folks didn't know, Gracie'd returned the spring before. It was like she couldn't stay away. The winter after she left was a hard one. Snow on the Common five feet deep, people tunneling out to feed the livestock. I lost four of my sheep that year. There was a thaw, then a flood, then spring was behind the barn. And with it come Gracie Everdeen. And, wherever she'd been, she come back sad and sorrowful, and you can bet me, the heart in her poor bosom was cleave in two."

There was something in the simple country way he put his words together that painted a picture for me. I could see the fallow fields, the drab sky, the melting snow, and the tempestuous, strange creature that was Gracie Everdeen, victim of unbridled pa.s.sions, spurning the mother who broke her heart, the lover who betrayed her.

"But she didn't come back to the village that spring, did she?" I was remembering Mrs. O'Byrne's part of the story.

"No, sir, she didn't. She was stayin' over t' Saxony, but she wouldn't cross the river. Wouldn't come over the Lost Whistle for hide nor hair."

"Why not?"

He ducked his head briefly, and faltered in his story. Then, regaining himself, "Who knows? Womenfolk do peculiar things sometimes. Roger Penrose heard she was over there, and he rode out and begged her to come home. Time after time, but she wouldn't."

"Why wouldn't Roger cross the bridge?"

"Wasn't supposed to. It's the rule. In the seventh year the Harvest Lord's not to go beyond the village boundaries. Same for the Corn Maiden. But Grace, on her side, she'd never set foot to the bridge. And Roger'd never go to her."