Jim Crace - Harvest

So the numbers swell throughout the afternoon, until finally everybody I have known in this placid line of cottages accepts that it’s best to put some distance between themselves and Master Jordan’s men, especially that groom, especially his freshly carved gargoyle face. They shudder at the thought of him. Once the decision has been made, I can see — and I’m surprised and touched by it — a kind of determined, turbulent happiness taking hold. If there is grief and anger in the air, there is also jollity. Some of the younger ones are almost smiling with relief as they set off to cross our village limits for the first time in their lives, relieved to get away before they’re caught, of course, but also glad that what’s ahead of them is not predictable. They’ve found a reason to stride bravely off. Their hearts are leaping and their heads are clear. They’re free at last, and filling up with hope with every step. Perhaps they will encounter marvels on the way.

Most of them take the widest lane, the one that Mr. Baynham followed on his horse, because it means they at least can lead a cow or goat with them, or carry their hens and geese in baskets on their barrows and their carts. The Kips even succeed in putting an ox between the shafts of a hay wagon and setting off with almost everything they own, including all their stoppered bottles of cordial and their gleaning sacks. Of course, their names are going with them too. All of the village names that count are moving out. Soon they will have gone beyond the hoof-trod paths and drift-ways on The Property of Edmund Jordan, gentleman, and will have reached the wonder of a graveled surface, the wagon ways of post-horn carriages, packhorse trains and carting loads. They will have joined the restless, paler people of the towns.

Only the Carrs and Saxtons take the slower, deeper, forest route, despite their lifelong dread of going for too long without the certainty of either daylight or the moon. The trees at the forest’s heart might not have seen a human face before. There might not even be a path. That means these neighbors cannot draw their carts or take with them any of their more valuable animals. They’ll leave them to find forage of their own. “Let them eat wool,” I mutter at my neighbors’ backs, making light as best I can of all their troubles, present and forthcoming, their lamentable hereafters , as Mr. Quill has titled them. But going by the forest route does mean they’re safe at least from mounted pursuit. With any luck they’ll not be caught, they’ll not be hunted down like deer. Who knows, within a day or two they might have reached another line of bounds and someone else’s common ground, where they can put up their hut — four rough and ready walls, a bit of roof — and light a fire. They’ll build a place; they’ll lay a hearth; they know the custom and the law. Their smoke will give them liberty to stay.

I AM IN KITTY GOSSE’S BED AGAIN. She isn’t stretched out at my side, of course. Tonight the only fingers fanned across my abdomen are my own. I’ve not laid eyes, or hands, on her since early yesterday. Her absence is an agony. I am surprised to feel so sick of heart because, of late, my wider carings have been narrowed by my wife’s too recent death. Kitty and I have not been honeyed lovers, after all, but falling short of that — something simpler, I suppose, something less affecting. But, still, the knowledge of her torments at the manor lies leaden in my stomach, a heavy, undigested stew which increases in its girth the more I ponder it. I’m brimming now with fret and bile, because of her.

I hope to find escape in sleep. But before I even try to sleep, before I dare to fall asleep, I have to tidy up the mess left by the three sidemen during their ransacking, the same three men who pained my Kitty Gosse. I had my choice of many beds, of all the village beds, in fact. There’s not a neighbor’s home that’s closed to me. But the habits of half a lifetime will not be shed so suddenly. I don’t feel free to trespass in their forsaken rooms, let alone rest my head and body in someone else’s dents, without their first inviting me. I think I’m hoping to recover some of their trust even though they are too far away and too long gone to witness my timid, loyal observance of our country practices or even care what I might do. But Mistress Gosse’s home has on occasion let me in quite willingly, and so I am pressed into dents that do, to some extent, belong to me.

I could not have slept comfortably in my own bed — at least, I did not want to take the risk. What I must regard as John Carr’s final, kind advice — that I was named as part of a conspiracy and should, therefore, pack up, move out and save myself, is unsettling still. My head is bustling with bitter, bruising possibilities. If Master Jordan’s men are looking now for Mr. Quill, no doubt they would be pleased to capture his assistant too, his vellum-maker, his companion on the bounds. It’s all too easy to imagine what might occur if I were sleeping in my bed at home, wrapped up in my own rough cloth inside my own rough room. I’d be woken by the breaking open of the door. They’d drag me by my ankles to the manor house. My cheekbone’s already cracked today, and hurting; it’s fractured, possibly. My jaw is stiff. Chewing on the apple and the stub of bread I had for supper was hard work. So I will be punished all the more if I am bounced among the windfalls in the lane. I see myself laid out on the long bench in the porch on stone already moist and cold from Mistress Beldam’s father’s corpse. I am the one who sleeps with Willowjack. My everlasting paradise is Turd and Turf. I take the blame for everything.

I must remind myself that Master Kent has told me otherwise. He says I am not counted as a suspect. I’m ashamed to say, the opposite is true. I’m taken by his cousin for a man he can “rely upon,” that was the way he phrased it. Unlike neighbor Carr, Master Kent was privy to last night’s excesses, even though a floorboard blocked his view, and so his word has some authority. He promises I’ve not been named by widow Gosse. He could be wrong entirely or the circumstances might change, of course: each day the story of our lives is forced onto a different track. Nothing seems impossible. But my instinct almost persuades me he is right. There has been something in the way Master Jordan looks at me — he’s weighing me; I’m livestock in his eyes — to make me wonder if he hopes one day to find me useful, a beast of burden he can put to work. He must realize I’m truly not a villager. He knows I used to be the manor man. He sees I stand apart. I’m separate. Indeed, I haven’t felt as separate in years. Perhaps it’s just as well, this recent, saddening detachment from the drove. I almost welcome it. These loose roots might save me yet.

So I find some calm in Kitty Gosse’s bed, though fleetingly. My naps are fly-by-night and fugitive. I cannot stay asleep. Because the demons come again. They’re taunting me with: You’re Master Jordan’s donkey now; You don’t deserve kind neighbors and good friends; you did deserve that hearty kicking when you toppled from your bench into the rain ditch this afternoon; There’s more and worse to come for you; watch out. I imagine for a second time that breaking open of my door, that dragging of my body by its ankles through the night. It is not the sidemen beating me but Saxtons, Rogerses, Gosses, Derbys, Kips and Carrs. Yes, someone that I must have thought of as a neighbor or a friend has struck me in the face today. The bruises have flowered on my cheek and the pain is ripening, I find myself so saddened and incensed that I can hardly hope for the salve of lasting sleep.

Counting sheep is not the remedy. The night itself is also keeping me awake. Its wind is pelleting its buckshot stars across the sky. The trees cry out already for their departed friends. Abandoned animals are demanding care, despite the dark. It is as if they know I’m here and are impatient for my services. I ought to drag my aching face out of the widow’s bed and attend to them, attend to everything and anyone that needs me in the night. For there is no forgetting there are other human hearts out there, more damp and cold than mine. I’m haunted now by the thought of Mr. Quill, not only by the fear that he’s been caught, but also by Master Kent’s report that the missing man slept elsewhere . The last time I saw him was at the pillory. One moment he was putting his finger on my hand, the next he was almost out of sight, crashing through the sore-hocks in Mistress Beldam’s traces, and her scent.