Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

The child stood on the threshold, the front of her dress smeared with blood. In one hand she held the kitchen knife; in the other was the chicken, split down the middle, its insides hanging out in bloody riot. Bits of feathers were caught at the corners of her mouth, sticky with flecks of blood, and I could see her jaws working, trying to swallow something. Her eyes were glazed with some manic dream, while around whatever it was she had in her mouth, she spoke an unintelligible gibberish. I backed away from the disgusting sight as she advanced into the room. Her mother had not moved.

The knife fell from the child’s hand, clattering noisily. Her neck stretched like a serpent’s, the head angled forward, the eyes blank, unseeing. Cassandra, speaking with the tongue of the god.

“Mn-mm-mean, um-” She muttered on in a dead, hollow tone. I stiffened, waiting.

“Mean-um-mnm-” She seemed to be groping to see something that she alone could see, to hear what she alone could hear. There was still some unchewable matter in her mouth, and the parched syllables came with difficulty.

“Be-ware-” She was fumbling with the dead chicken, working her fingers inside the slit cavity.

“The-night-”

I looked down at the dripping entrails, and back as Tamar spoke anxiously. “When, Missy? Which night?”

“When-it comes-the night-beware-”

“When?”

A garbled response.

“ Which night, Missy?”

Though she faced me, I was sure she did not see me. Yet, pillaging the insides from the chicken, yanking them onto the linoleum, she was speaking to me. “For you-the-”

“What, Missy?” Tamar strained forward anxiously to hear.

The cat dropped to the sinkboard and eyed the slimy guts on the floor. Missy bent, feeling with her hands but never removing her glazed eyes from my direction. She scrabbled at the feathers in the corner of her mouth and then, scooping up the loathsome mess from around her feet, she began hurling it at me, bit by bit, her arms windmilling, the gobbets flying in a spate of red before I could move.

“ Which night ?” Tamar demanded again.

Ugly blotches had appeared on the child’s pale skin. Wet breathing sounds issued from her gaping mouth. “Mean-um — mnm-” Gently she fondled the last remaining pieces in her palms, then paused as though listening. She struggled to articulate, then gasped out the words.

“The-all-pre-vail-ing-night-’’

Her hand flew up, she crammed the stuff into her mouth, choked, and fainted. As I backed through the doorway, the cat sprang to the floor with a thud and began greedily devouring the chicken’s heart.

At first when I turned in to Penrose Lane, I did not hear the horse. Then, absorbed in thinking of what had happened at Tamar’s house, I thought that Kate was just giving the mare too much head. At last I realized Tremmy was running away with her. They were coming at a fast clip, and I could see the look of terror on Kate’s face. I ran into the middle of the road and lunged for the rein. “Dig your knees in!” I shouted, grabbing hold and letting the horse drag my weight. At the same time, Kate pulled back on the reins and the horse reared and plunged, whinnying wildly and thrashing with its head. Still Kate kept her seat, grasping the mane with both hands as she tried to control the animal. Its head came up and knocked me sidewise, and again it reared, its hoofs just missing me as they came down. I rolled out of the way and shouted for Kate to kick free of her stirrups, then jumped and snatched the reins in one hand and an ear of the horse in the other. Twisting, I exerted all the force I could to quiet the animal, and as it moved past me, I let go, reached for Kate, and grabbed her from the saddle. The horse skipped away as I held her in my arms, then set her down.

“Gosh.” She leaned against me for a moment, pressing her head to my chest with relief.

“Are you O.K.?”

“Sure. I’m fine.” She looked up at me, rose on tiptoe, and kissed my cheek. I heard her laugh as I went back to the corner, where the horse had stopped to chew some grass. I came quietly up beside it, talking to it until I had got the reins, and gently led it around. Kate was still laughing.

The laugh stopped. She caught at her chest. Yanking the horse behind, I started to run. Her hands came up around her throat, she staggered slightly, and I let go of the horse and caught her just as her knees buckled. I laid her down in the roadway for a moment, watching as her eyes bulged, the veins appeared, and she fought for air. Frantically I felt in the pockets of her jeans for her Medihaler. It was not there. I picked her up in my arms and, running, carried her down the lane.

I brought her in through the door of the kitchen, where Beth and Maggie Dodd were sitting at the table having coffee. Beth jumped up, white-faced, and I told her to get the emergency Medihaler from the drawer, then took Kate into the bacchante room and laid her on the sofa. When Beth brought the breathing device, I forced it between Kate’s lips and pumped the aluminum valve. In the other room I could hear Maggie on the telephone, calling Dr. Bonfils. Then she dialed another number, apparently failed to get a response, and a moment later hurried out the door.

The Medihaler seemed to be having no effect. As Kate lay gasping for breath, I could feel her pulse getting weaker. Hastily I forced her mouth open and began applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I was still working over her when the doctor arrived.

He administered massive doses of adrenalin; I swabbed the arm for him when he injected the needle. Kate lay in a comatose state, her position unchanged. Behind me, Beth watched horror-stricken. The doctor rolled back the lids and looked at the turned-up eyes. I heard a truck in the driveway, and shortly Merle Penrose, Harry Gill, and another from the fire department rushed in with the respirator. The doctor supervised the application of the machine, taking his stethoscope from his bag and holding it to Kate’s chest. I stepped back out of the way, groped blindly for Beth’s hand, but failed to find it.

Kneeling, the doctor listened. I could see that the collar of his shirt was frayed; I remember thinking he probably got paid so little for his services in these parts that he couldn’t afford a new one. Mrs. O’Byrne’s Tiffany clock on the shelf chimed the half-hour, and I became acutely aware of the ticking. Merle and the fire department boys had moved to the corner, waiting. I could hear the sound of raspy breathing, but I knew it was Dr. Bonfils, who, with his shoulders sagging, crouched by the sofa and listened for the heartbeat. He motioned to Merle; the apparatus was detached. Merle and the others did not look at me as they took it and went out. The truck backed out of the driveway and went along the lane.

Dr. Bonfils stood looking down at the small figure on the sofa; he did not turn immediately. Unable to wait longer, I stepped to his side, put a hand on his shoulder, forced him to look at me. It is still possible to hope when hope is gone; he read the hope in my expression, and I could see it pained him to be able to offer me none. I watched him lay the stethoscope in the bag, heard the snap of the latches. Then he picked up his bag and, without looking again at the figure on the sofa, left the room. I heard the front door open and close.

In the space between the coffee table and the sofa, I knelt and laid the side of my head along the cushion, my lips touching the shoulder of my dead daughter. There was the odor of the stable on her jacket. I took her hand and held it. What did one do now? In the movies they always draw a sheet over the-

Body.

Again I heard the ratcheting sound of a motor; a car pulled into the drive, doors slammed. I remained where I was, thinking I must call Ed Oates and let him do what must be done. Amys Penrose would be tolling thrice times thrice; wasn’t that the way you did it for a girl? Thrice times-