Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

They were going to kill him .

Here, in the grove, in this temple of the Mother Earth, the Harvest Lord was to be offered in ritual sacrifice. Here, in the moonlight, with the dancing and singing women, Justin Hooke was being drugged, was then to be murdered, murdered for the corn.

This was why they had revealed to him their mystery, because he would never live to tell what he had seen. Bound together in oneness, the Harvest Lord and the corn, and as the corn died and was reborn, so would he die and be born again, not in himself but in the young Lord. The Eternal Return.

I felt shock, disgust, rage, felt again the hatred I had felt at the burning-hatred for their stupid, primitive beliefs. I wanted to shout out to Justin: Do not drink, run away; never hear, never listen.

I looked at him. He did not seem afraid. In his drugged state, he showed no loss of dignity; he sat regal and aloof, watching as the corn ear was covered again and taken from sight, as if he comprehended what he had been shown, and what he must now do.

The Widow was speaking again: “And as our Lord has accepted honor and tribute at our hand so he must likewise find his passing at our hand.”

The Harvest Lord made immortal. The pride of Justin Hooke.

The old woman continued, recalling for them the last Great Waste, when Loren McCutcheon had been Harvest Lord-Justin nodding agreement-and the cause of this visitation had come at the hands of Gracie Everdeen, blighted in soul and body, she whose Lord had been Roger Penrose, and who had defied the traditions of Harvest Home, had brought to the reign of Loren McCutcheon waste and dearth.

Perfidious Grace Everdeen.

Dead, all of them. Loren McCutcheon, but not from drink. Roger Penrose, but not from a horse fall. Clemmon Fortune, but not from an axe blow.

Murdered for the corn.

The Widow Fortune.

Widowhood in exchange for good crops. And everyone, all the villagers, had known it, man, woman, child alike. And he, the victim, had also known. And I, the fool everyone said I was, had not known.

I saw it now. Loren McCutcheon had been the Harvest Lord and had reigned for seven years; on the seventh year Justin had been chosen the Young Lord at the Agnes Fair. At Harvest Home, Loren had been dispatched by some unknown means and Justin had taken his place. For seven years there had been no Great Waste, the crops were bountiful; and now, tonight, the seven years were done. Worthy Pettinger had been chosen the Young Lord, with Missy Penrose’s bloody hands on his cheeks, signifying he would reign for the next seven years. But Worthy had not wanted to die. He had run away, been brought back, and killed. Insult to the Mother.

And Justin would die, in the prime of his manhood, to give place to the hew Harvest Lord, Jim Minerva, who in another seven years would also die.

The King is dead, long live the King.

Now the women could not stifle their ready tears, and they began an orgy of cries, voices calling out in farewell. I strained to hear the Widow. She had become somewhat incoherent, and I caught only fragments.

“Land has offered up its gifts-bounty-his hand given freely-be grateful-in gratitude mourn him-” The hoarse, uneven voice rose and fell in a fanatical paean of praise and sorrow. “Land will sleep-so must he-lay him to rest-recall with love-the farmer Justin Hooke.”

Generously the moon lent its light to the scene, which little by little became more agitated. Never while the Widow spoke had the cup ceased being passed among the celebrants; never had Justin not been offered it. His eyes glittered, his tongue betrayed the dryness of his mouth, while his glazed features seemed illuminated by some dread inner light as he listened to the doleful lamentation, prefacing what was to follow.

They would poison him, undoubtedly. Some baneful mixture the Widow had prepared would be administered, put into his cup, and given to him to drink. But this was not yet, this was later, for now there was something to come before.

I should have realized what it was to be, yet until it actually began, I did not. Had I known, nothing could have kept me where I had hidden myself.

But even this part was for a time delayed, while the dancing began anew-another kind of dance, a brutal, fierce expression of emotion. Justin was brought to a standing position, and the red mantle taken from his shoulders, to be folded by numerous hands and passed from sight. Now he stood before them in god-like glory, his body covered only by a short tunic extending from neck to thigh and made of strips of corn leaves, and I could see his glistening flesh through the spaces between the strips. Again he took the proffered cup into his hands, fingers spread around the curve of metal; I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as the liquid slid down his throat. He returned the cup, staggering slightly, pulled himself erect, and stood, spread-legged, waiting.

Everyone was waiting. And then I saw what was to come. There was one figure in the ceremony I had momentarily forgotten: the Corn Maiden. Until now she had sat by, accepting the cup as it was handed her, bending forward in rapt attention as the Widow spoke. Now her outer robe was taken from her and she was brought forward, moving across the trampled grass with a slow, undulating walk, an aggressive sexuality revealed in her movement, the embroidered veil hanging to her waist, the rest of her body covered to the thighs in the same sort of corn-leaf tunic that Justin wore. While she gazed at him through her veil, the women took hoes and dug at the turf, turning the soft ground. Little by little, the green of the grass disappeared and the sod was dug up, revealing the dark earth beneath. As they worked they sang, their faces flushed from the drink, their gestures feverish, as though anxious to accomplish their labor.

Among them walked the Widow, putting her hand to their hoes, each in turn, encouraging their endeavors, her white cap catching the light as she lifted her head and offered reverence to the Mother; and as she spoke, each word was taken up in turn by the women, so the singing became a liturgical incantation, picked up one by one, the next repeating it, and the next, and so it spread all across the tilled clearing, the Widow making gestures of transference from her mouth to theirs, offering them the words, they antiphonally returning them.

“We offer Thee, O Mother, Thy husband, as Thou hast given him to us, so we return him to Thee, into Thy keeping.”

“Thy keeping…”

“As Thou has provided him strength, take him in strength.”

“In strength…”

“For tonight he shall be gloried. They shall stand by his tomb and remember him. He shall not have been Justin Hooke, the corn farmer, but the Harvest Lord. He shall be immortal.”

“Immortal.”

“Take him to Your breast, great holiest of Mothers, this Your son, and succor him, receive him, forgive him. Blessed is he …”

“Blessed is he…”

“ Body of Your body …”

“Body of Your body…”

“ Soul of Your soul …”

“Soul of Your soul…”

“ Soul of the corn that grows, the receptacle, harborer of the seed… ”

“Harborer of the seed…”

“ Receive him …”

“Receive him…”

“ O Mother …”

“O Mother…”

“ O Mother …”

“O Mother…”

“ O Mother-r-r… Ma Mere…Mia Ma-a-adre…Maw-tharr… Mo-der… Ma-ter-r-r-r…Me-e-ee-eter-r-r …”

“Me-e-ee-eter-r-r…”

“ De-meter-r-r-r …”

“Demeter…”

Thus continued the chant, a canticle in a gradual declension of words that saw its passage from the tongue of every day through tongues that had been spoken for century upon century and that at last became another tongue entirely: