Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

Mrs. Minerva stopped to pay her respects. “Fred’s feelin’ sort of achy-and just before Harvest Home, too. Hate to think of what it’ll be with a change of weather.”

“Fred’s had the worst luck. You just come along to me, Asia, and let me give you something for him.”

“Some sermon today,” Mrs. Zalmon said, greeting the Reverend, who was once again meek, as though this very day he might inherit the earth. Divested of his robes but maintaining his circular white collar, Mr. Buxley accepted congratulations on his preaching while his wife basked in reflected glory.

“You can’t tell me he didn’t mean Gracie Everdeen,” someone said.

“Oh, dear, now, really, we mustn’t-I mean, it’s such a lovely day, we oughtn’t-now, Sally Pounder-” It was Mrs. Buxley’s habit not only to mince words but to make hash of them as well. “We mustn’t sully a Sunday with such talk-I’m sure James didn’t mean-did you, James?” Tucking her husband’s arm under hers, she took him off as though he were a parcel.

While the Widow continued talking quilts with Beth, Jack Mump’s cart was heard approaching, the clatter of his pans and kettles fracturing the churchtide quiet.

“Whatcha say, ladies, bounteeful day, ain’t it? Whatcha say, Widow?”

“Come ‘round later, Jack,” she said, and he tipped his hat to her. Pedaling up to Sally Pounder and Betsey Cox, the bank teller, he yanked open a drawer and nourished a piece of beadwork.

“Yessir, we got us a bounteeful day, girls, so let’s make hay while the sun shines. How’s your pig, Irene?” He tipped his hat to Mrs. Tatum. “Girls, lookee here what I got. One of a kind, a pure original, you’ll never see another one like it.”

“Don’t you know this is the Sabbath, Jack Stump?” Irene Tatum bawled. “Since when do we allow Sunday buyin’ or sellin’? You got some dispensation? No? Then haul your contraption off and don’t go merchandisin’ at the very church door when people’s just finished speakin’ with the Lord.” Her danger was as righteous as if she were Christ driving the money-changers from the temple.

I nodded to the Hookes, who now descended the steps; Justin was immediately surrounded by a ring of admirers, while Sophie stood aside with resigned good humor. I moved back as Tamar Penrose, fishing a key from her bag, passed close by. She gave me a sullen glance, then, turning quickly, she crossed the roadway onto the Common.

Mrs. Green was speaking to Mrs. Zalmon. “Look at them tatty beads,” she said as the peddler palmed the necklace off on Betsey Cox. “A body can’t set much store by what he trades in.”

“Ayuh,” Mrs. Zalmon agreed, making her words significant. “He’s not a likely person, is he?”

Mrs. Green’s mouth drew down. “Not likely at all.”

The Widow laughed. “Oh, I like Jack Stump. He’s independent. Folks have to be independent-gives ‘em character. I like a fellow who thinks for himself. People are so busy today tryin’ to be just like all the others. I like people who has peculiarities.”

Justin offered to drive her home in his El Camino, and she asked him to wait while she went into the churchyard and spent some time with Clem. As was evidently her habit, she had been inviting certain of the gathering to come to her house and be sociable before Sunday dinner. Justin accepted the invitation, then disengaged himself from the ladies and took Sophie off down the sidewalk.

“You come along for those scraps in a while,” the Widow told Beth, and, lifting her skirts, she went into the cemetery, shears dangling at her waist.

Maggie said, “Ned, take Robert down to the Rocking Horse for a drink; then we’ll go to the Widow’s.” While she and Beth turned to talk quilting with Mrs. Green and Mrs. Brucie, I gave Robert my arm and led him along the sidewalk toward the tavern.

“Another local custom?” I asked.

“One with the deepest significance. Ladies not welcome.”

Passing the churchyard, I saw the solitary figure beside Clem Fortune’s grave. It made a striking picture, I thought, the old woman in her widow’s weeds and white cap, standing among the ancient tombstones, head bowed, her lips moving.

It was indeed a grand day. The broad New England sky was sunny and bright, the air nimble with the slightest hint of autumn in the brisk breeze that tumbled leaves along the roadside. Groups of people were strung out along the sidewalks, enjoying the fine weather and discussing Mr. Buxley’s sermon. The belled sheep grazed on the Common, cropping the turf, their coats woolly and thick for winter shearing.

“What are those ridges in the grass?” I asked Robert. He angled his head as though to look.

“Bonfire circles. When the grass burns away and they re-seed it the next spring, it always seems to come up a different color.”

“Bonfires?”

“On Kindling Night, just before Harvest Home. A farm custom. Up in Maine and New Hampshire, they still have big fires on Election Day, which is somehow mixed up with the British Guy Fawkes Day, though I don’t suppose they remember quite how. Here they have a fire to mark the end of the growing year, and they dance around it.”

“What kind of dance?”

“What’s known as a chain dance. It goes back to the ancient Greeks-you can still see vases in museums with chain dancers painted on them, some of them dating back to the Bronze Age or further.”

I saw Missy making her way through the sheep, the incredible-looking doll in her hand. Her mother stood in the doorway of the post office, and I had the feeling that as we walked along, both pairs of eyes were fixed on us. At the tavern, the village males-Sunday suits, collars opened, ties yanked-moved aside to permit the blind man to reach a place at the end of the bar nearest the door. In the corner at our right sat Amys Penrose, drinkless, but looking hopeful. Amys, I had discovered, was regarded as the village eccentric Caretaker of Penance House across the way, he also looked after the sheep on the Common, swept the street, and was church sexton, bell ringer, and grave digger. A typical Yankee, he kept himself beholden to none, never kowtowed to the village elite, came and went as he pleased, and, being a Penrose, was maybe a little “tetched.”

As we sat down he hiked his stool over to accommodate us. “Mornin’, Professor.”

“That you, Amys? Your bells sounded fine this morning.”

“Ringin’s ringin’, and drinkin’s drinkin’.”

Though blind, Robert knew when he was being cadged. “Have a beer on me, Amys,” he offered. We ordered drinks from Bert, the bartender, and while they were being brought I heard one of the farmers in the vicinity speaking to a group around him.

“I guess Gracie’s ears were burnin’ today.”

“If the hellfires haven’t burned her first.”

Again I wondered what Grace Everdeen had done to merit such general censure.

Robert was speaking to Amys: “I was telling our friend here about the chain dances on Kindling Night.”

“Kindling Night.” Amys used the spittoon. “Crazy notion. They been doin’ them fool dances ever since I can recollect.” Like the Ancient Mariner, he seemed to compel me with his glittering eye. “You stop around here long enough, you’ll see lots of things.”

I sipped my drink, my head bent slightly so I could see off across the Common. Tamar Penrose was still in the post office doorway. “Why does the post office have such a large chimney?”

Amys took his face out of his beer mug. “Hell, that ain’t been the P.O. for no time a’tall. Used to be the old forge barn to the Gwydeon Penrose place, over there where I live.” He pushed his hat back, leaned his elbows on the bar, and ground some peanuts between his bony jaws. “Cagey feller, old Gwydeon. Once, during an Indian attack, he barricaded himself and his family inside that forge. Them Indians tried to burn him out, but he’d built the place of stone, so fire wouldn’t touch nothin’ but the door. When the Indians finally got in, all ready for scalpin’, they wa’n’t there. Foxy old Gwydeon’d dug a tunnel months before, and he got out and his whole family, too. ‘Course, the forge ain’t been a forge for years. After the Revolution, the barn was sold and it became a general store; then we got the P.O.”