Harvest Home

“Why’s that?”

“The farmers need it.”

I paced the rug in Robert Dodd’s sun porch, my hand trembling as I drank a Scotch-and-soda. Though he had asked me several times to sit, I could not. The talking-book machine remained silent, the arm lifted from the record. Immobile in his chair, head slumped, the Professor listened to me, his dark glasses shielding his sightlessness.

I had come home to find my house empty. The station wagon was gone, so were Beth and Kate. There was no note, no communication of any kind. None of Beth’s clothes were missing, or Kate’s either. I was out of my mind with worry. Robert had told me that Maggie had driven down to the city, and that perhaps Beth and Kate had gone with her. Still, this didn’t explain the station wagon’s not being in the garage.

In my agitated state, I found it difficult to collect my thoughts. As coherently as I was able, I repeated the story of last night’s events, going back to the afternoon, to the Hookes’ farm, then to the river, meeting Tamar-I had got to that part of the story before I realized it, tried to explain my way out again: “It’s not what you think. I didn’t- She wanted it- she-” I stopped, then went on. The field had been empty, the scarecrow was taken down; then there was another scarecrow. The Widow had long before showed us the things in her parlor, the Spanish- American War tunic Jack Stump had sold her, the cocked hat, the boots. A scarecrow where there had been none. The pigs going berserk at the smell of blood. They had taken Worthy from the post office, and killed him. Then the scarecrow was put on the bonfire.

“They murdered him. And they cut off Jack Stump’s tongue.”

Robert shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

“No? I’m telling you! And they killed Gracie Everdeen!”

“Calm down, my boy. You’re in an overwrought state. Grace Everdeen killed herself. It’s why she was not permitted burial in our churchyard.”

“She was murdered, and they wouldn’t bury her because of whatever it was she did. At Harvest Home. Out there-in Soakes’s Lonesome. Fourteen years ago tonight!”

“Yes. Tonight. I’ve been sitting here this morning thinking, Tonight is Harvest Home.”

“I’m going.”

“Going where?”

“There. To the woods. For Harvest Home.” Angrily I put my glass down and started from the room.

“Ned-wait!” Robert’s voice rose sharply. “If you won’t sit down, stand there and let me tell you one or two things that might interest you. Are you familiar with what are commonly referred to as the Greek Mysteries? The Eleusinian Mysteries, for example?”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“Back in the old days there was a cult of women who worshiped a goddess called Demeter. She was the earth goddess.”

“The Mother-?”

“In one of her varying forms. But these so-called mysteries were celebrated annually, and the secret of what occurred when those Greek women got together to worship in their grove was so well guarded that to this day scholars don’t really know what went on. But the important thing is that in each case where the secret was breached, it resulted in death.

“Those women didn’t want anyone watching them while they were doing what they deemed necessary, or what they believed in. This is a very serious thing, as it is with any sort of fanaticism. And their fanaticism stemmed from their belief in a deity of grain. And the god-or, in this instance, goddess- who provided it was revered.”

“Worshiped.”

He nodded. “Agricultural societies in certain periods of history have been known to be especially primitive and savage, and also particularly secretive. And our agricultural ladies here in Cornwall who happen to believe as they do don’t want any men knowing what their particular ‘mysteries’ are all about. So no one’s ever seen ‘em. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“I’m going to find out.” The conviction in my voice produced a long silence in Robert.

“If you go,” he said finally, “you’ll live to regret it-if you live.”

“But I’ll go!”

“You’ll never get there. They’ll have guards posted. Along the road-the bridge, by the river. No one goes to the woods tonight, except the women. No Soakeses, no one.”

“I go!”

He sighed wearily. “Let me tell you one more thing. Fourteen years ago, there was another man. He was curious, too. He tried to find out.”

“Did he?”

“Before the mystery had even begun, he was discovered- and he suffered grievously. I beg you, don’t go!”

“If this ‘he’ you’re talking about got caught, he was a fool.”

“You are the fool.”

“Everybody seems to think so. Why do you?”

I waited for him to continue, sensed that he had more to say. Sensed, also that in some way he, too, was afraid, was constrained not to go further. The room had fallen silent, and I suddenly knew I was waiting for something. Something that had nothing to do with what we were talking about; something from outside, beyond us. Something had happened-or was about to, I couldn’t tell which. In a second more, I knew what it was.

Distantly, the church bell began a slow, solemn peal. Two tollings, Amys had said. This one was unscheduled; yet I had known it was to come. I counted, trying to remember what Amys had told me about the sequence of bells.

“Someone has died,” Robert said. We listened. The bell rang three times, three again, three again.

“Thrice times thrice. A woman.” Robert rose. “Have you got your car? Drive me to the church.”

The bell continued tolling as we drove to the Common, and when we arrived at the north end of Main Street people were hurrying from all directions, crowding around the steps. On the top one stood the Widow Fortune, her white cap hidden by a dark shawl as she angrily gesticulated at Amys Penrose, who was pulling on the bell rope. A man ran up the steps and listened as the old woman spoke, then shouted to the crowd: “Amys oughtn’t to be ringin’.”

I drove to the curb and helped Robert onto the sidewalk, looking up at the Widow, who was shading her eyes against the sun, peering up the street we had just driven down. Soon I saw a vehicle making slow progress under the trees, and the crowd shifted as it approached, forming two lines outward from the church steps to the roadway where Justin’s El Camino halted. He got out, lowered the tailgate, and came bearing his burden between the silent lines, moving up the steps, then bending before the Widow and placing at her feet the dead body of Sophie Hooke.

The Widow had not moved, but remained where she was, looking down at the still form, an enigmatic expression on her face. “What did she do?” I heard a voice asking. The Widow made a slight movement, acknowledging the question but offering no answer. Mr. Buxley stepped forward.

“She hanged herself.” He clamped his mouth in a grim line, then continued. There would be no reading from his Book for the repose of Sophie’s soul, nor would she be buried in the churchyard. She would rest outside the iron fence, and I pictured the real grave beside Gracie Everdeen’s false one.

I watched the faces around me as they heard the pronouncement. Sally Pounder’s mouth opened and closed in blank perplexity; Betsey Cox scowled and bit her thumb; Tamar Penrose, standing behind Missy, held herself in a breathless attitude of waiting, a kind of exultation on her face, expectant, transfixed.

Nowhere did I hear anyone say “Poor Sophie,” nor indeed did anyone appear to be struck by the tragedy, or even by the fact of her death-only that she was dead now, today.

“Of all days,” said one.

“Not a thought for anyone else,” said another.

“Amys shouldn’t have rung,” said a third. “Dead by her own hand.”

Justin Hooke stood stolidly, looking at the Widow as if for guidance, but saying nothing.

“Should have known better-” a third put in.

“A sinner’s heart!” It was the Widow, who had lifted her head and begun speaking. Though she did not shout, her voice reached all quarters of the assembled crowd. “She has done away with herself. She has done it in