by Thomas Tryon
“Don’t you think maybe you ought to see Dr. Bonfils?”
“Ned—don’t worry. I don’t want to see Dr. Bonfils. It’s all right. I know. The Widow says so. And Missy. No—don’t look shocked. It’s true. She says there’s to be a baby in the spring.”
And if Missy, the village idiot, prophesied it, who was I to contradict? For whatever reasons, Beth seemed so certain, so safe and sure in her belief, so happy in it, that I would not have contradicted in any case. As she had made so many other things possible, the Widow Fortune had made this possible, too, for us to have another child.
But for me the prevailing wind that blew through the village of Cornwall Coombe remained one of mystery. I could not fathom the intensity of feeling against Worthy Pettinger’s defection. It was as though they considered him somehow their property or the subject of their demands; as though regardless of his personal wishes, he must conform to theirs. I considered it a much-ado teapot, for they had their replacement, Jimmy Minerva, whom everyone seemed to regard favorably. But Worthy’s anger had taken him beyond the bounds of reason, and his damning of the corn had shaken the village to its foundations. It was considered the worst of omens; Missy Penrose was being frequently and avidly consulted for prognostications, while in church Mr. Buxley offered prayers.
Even Mr. Buxley.
When my thoughts were not with the boy, I found myself, in spite of everything, returning yet again to what I was beginning to call—in my mind, at least—the Mystery of Gracie Everdeen. Some facts seemed clear enough. She had run away because her mother forbade the marriage. She had come back, and her sweetheart had got her pregnant. She had thrown herself from the Lost Whistle Bridge into the river, which was low, and dashed herself on the rocks. Irene Tatum had found the body, which had been buried without ceremony outside the church precincts.
It seemed simple and tragic, both. Still, I wondered. Phrases in the pathetic letter kept popping up in my mind: What has happened isn’t my fault…It will die when I die. What no man may know nor woman tell. In no way was I able to decipher the meaning of the words. And I wanted to be there to make the corn with you. I had seen the “making of the corn” in the play, the ritual tilling of the earth, Sophie jumping over the plowshare; but Gracie’s reference remained lost on me. I recalled the shoes in the box—unusually large for a girl, and the gloves as well. Yet Amys had remembered her as pretty, girlish, delicate. And Mrs. Everdeen—why hadn’t she wanted Gracie to marry Roger? Because he was poor? Because the strain was tainted? And why had she wanted Gracie to give Roger’s ring back? And why had Gracie kept it? And, more important, why had she waited until two days after Harvest Home to do away with herself? Where had she spent the intervening time?
Putting these thoughts from my mind as best I could, I turned to the task at hand, the completion of Justin’s portrait in the time promised. I drove out to the farm for a sitting; Justin’s normally sanguine attitude was at first tinged with a slight coolness, and, though she was sympathetic, Sophie’s demeanor also seemed altered. Her usually bright face was dull, shadowy, clouded by some kind of worry. I observed a growing sense of urgency in her; her actions were composed of quick, brittle movements, and she seemed impatient with the slow thoroughness of my work. I had set up my easel on the lawn between the drive and the harvested cornfield, and I could hear her in the kitchen, banging and rattling pots and pans.
I felt it necessary to make some remark about what had happened at the husking bee, though I was then still having difficulty putting the pieces of the evening back together. Justin laughed good-naturedly, and said I was not the first to have gotten a snootful and made a fool of himself. “I think Fred and the boys were out to get you, anyway.”
“Out to get me?”
“To see how well you could stand up to the old stuff. I guess you didn’t pass the test. They’re annoyed with you, but it won’t last. They’re not down on outsiders as much as they seem to be.”
“I’m a fair drinker, but—”
Justin agreed. “It’s pretty strong.”
“And it leaves you with a blank.” I tried to explain the curious impression I had of something ominous growing out of the dance. He said I was imagining things.
“It’s just one of the old ways, you know. If you transgressed, it was against them, not against the people.”
“What are the ‘old ways’?”
He was friendly and casual. “Well, let’s say they’re the things that are—handed down. Maybe they’re not the most convenient ways, but they suit us. We leave people to live their lives the way they want and we want to live ours the same.” He shrugged. “Hell, Ned, I’m supposed to be the Harvest Lord, and I’m not sure I understand it all myself. All I know is it’s what I’ve been taught. And it’s been fine for me. I’m a lucky fellow. I told them after you went home—you acted the way you did because you don’t understand yet.”
“Understand what?”
He regarded me quizzically for a moment, then glanced over at the cornfield, to the spot where I had discovered the doll. “Well—now don’t get me wrong—but a fellow oughtn’t to go around snaffling pieces out of a friend’s cornfield. Some things are meant for a purpose, y’know.”
I felt the flush of embarrassment at my theft of the corn doll being thus revealed. Who had known besides Worthy? Who had seen me? “I’m sorry, Justin, I didn’t realize—”
“That’s what I mean. I know you didn’t. Don’t worry, the crops are safe in. See—it’s the way we’re born. We can’t help ourselves. It’s all of our ancestors, all the way back.”
“What was it—that little doll?”
“A man has to eat,” he said in a penetrating tone. “His food comes from the earth. And the earth must be thanked.”
“How?”
“It must be reverenced.”
“With corn gods?”
His eyes held mine in a level gaze for a moment; then they took on a puckish gleam. “Did you figure out who it was—that night?”
“In the field? No—”
“We must learn to discover what is possible.”
I heard him, yet I was miles away; not miles, but as far as Soakes’s Lonesome, on the Widow’s mushroom hunt. A man must learn—
“Did you like the little ‘experience’?”
—to discover—
“The music? The little cask? Your friends?”
—what is possible…
Justin’s eyes now held a smile. “Is it such an enigma? Such a sphinx? Come on, Ned, a fellow as smart as you—”
I was trying to put it together. “It was you, then?”
He laughed again, a deep, rumbling laugh. “Not me. I’m no actor. I told you, we went to the movies. And I didn’t mean him, I meant the lady.”
I was mentally stumbling, trying to make the connection, to grasp on to the reality forming in my mind. The doll in Justin’s field—the veiled figure below our meadow. “You mean they’re the same?”
“There is only one.”
“Who?”
His expression sobered. “She’s been a riddle for a long time. We thought sure you’d get it.”
“Not the Corn Maiden.”
“No.”
“Then—”
“She is very old.”
…older than Rome or Greece, older than Crete, than Babylon or Egypt; as old as the dawn of time…
Suddenly I saw. Saw clearly. I knew now who she was: the sphinx unveiled. “I—” Fumbling for words.
“—didn’t know. ’Course you didn’t. Now you do.” He nodded, his amusement gone. “Now you do,” he repeated. “She’s our Mother. The Mother Worthy Pettinger cursed.”
A man must learn to discover what is possible.
A little “experience.”
Not the Corn Maiden, but someone else.
The Mother.
“You worship something called the Mother? Mother—” He was waiting for the last word; I supplied it: “Earth.”
He made an
equivocal gesture with one hand. “She is—paid homage.” If I had watched closely, he went on, I had seen it all in the Corn Play. This was not merely a play, but the enactment of a belief—namely, that the renewal of life is the natural counterpart of the sexual union of the Harvest Lord with a spirit of growth, a goddess of fertility. No, the Corn Maiden was not the Mother, but one acting in her place.
“Fertility is the important thing to us here. Death is a terrible thing. But for us barrenness is worse. If you’re a farmer, that’s about the worst thing that can happen to you. In the play, if the corn sprouts in due season, it’s because the Earth Mother has been impregnated, and was caused to bear.”
“Christ, Justin—fertility rites?”
“If you like.” Again a gentle smile. “But what is to stop people from believing? There are stranger beliefs in this world. Ours is very simple. And it keeps us from—” He paused, gravely looked off at the annihilated cornfield.
“From what?”
“From being afraid. We fear only one thing, that something should interfere or change the cycle.”
“Which cycle?”
“Of life. Of living things, of the seasons. Of the natural order of things. The Eternal Return.” He spoke simply but earnestly, with a depth of conviction I found it difficult to fault.
“But they go to church on Sunday and sing hymns, like everyone else in the land.”
“Is everyone like everyone else in the land? I don’t think a Cornishman would agree with that. Being different’s part of our heritage. Personally, I’m proud of it.” It was not arrogance I read in his face, but a realization of himself, of what he stood for in the eyes of the villagers, and his responsibility to them. They had honored him; he would not fail them. “If you have questions, take them to the Widow Fortune,” he said kindly. “And,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “as you hope for tolerance from the villagers, so they must hope for tolerance from you.”
“What about tolerance for Worthy?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Simply that it doesn’t seem to me that anyone’s taking into account what he wants for himself.”
“I don’t know if Mr. Deming will want to take that into account. Worthy understands.”
“Understands what?”
“What he’s supposed to do. Mr. Deming does not consider that the honor’s to be taken lightly. Nor do the rest of the villagers.”
I started to protest; he moved toward me, putting his hand on my shoulder. Even in his casualness, he gave me the feeling he was exercising all his influence, cautioning me not to behave rashly, trying to protect me from my own ignorance. That in some unspoken way he was to be trusted, that he of himself could control the situation.
“I understand. It’s natural to doubt. Not to believe. But give it time.”
Who was I to try to solve mysteries that had been insoluble for the ages. Napoleon, trying to solve the riddle of the sphinx. I would give it time—for now.
When Justin went back to work, I stowed my painting gear in the car, then drove over to the Pettinger farm. No one answered my knock at the back door; the barn was closed, the place deserted. As I left, I glimpsed Worthy’s mother at an upstairs window; she made no sign.
Beth passed me going in the opposite direction, toward the bridge. She waved, then sped on without stopping, and I wondered where she was hurrying to. Returning to Penrose Lane, I stopped next door to speak with Maggie. I rang the bell; she answered, kissing me warmly and pressing my hand.
“Hi, Ned! I’m so happy about the baby!” I thanked her, and asked if she knew where Beth had gone.
“She said she had an appointment somewhere, then she wanted to look at wallpapers for the new nursery. Come on into the kitchen—I’ve got Robert’s lunch on. Have some?”
I declined, accepting her offer of a drink instead. Carrying Robert’s tray, she brought me into the sun porch. She set down the tray, waited for a pause in the narrative on the record player, then lifted the arm and shut it off.
“See who’s here, dear,” she said, “Ned.”
“Well, m’boy, pull up a chair.”
“Robert’s reading Anna Karenina.”
Robert readied himself while his wife unfolded a card table and set it up over his knees, put the tray on it, and opened a napkin and tucked it in his hand.
“Thank you, dear.” He began feeling out the carefully cut meat with his fork, the tips of his fingers working like antennas over the implements; Maggie hovered to assist his hand in finding the glass of milk or the salt shaker. When he had finished, she took his napkin from his lap, removed the tray, and bent to kiss him before going out.
“Don’t forget your drops, dear. Perhaps Ned will take down the card table—all right? Anything you need before I go?”
“Can I have a cigar?”
“Oh, Robert, you know what the Widow said.” She gave me a wink, set the tray down again, and took a cigar from the humidor on the desk, did her ritual of preparing it for Robert, then held the match while he lighted it.
“That’s quite a ceremony she performs,” I observed when Maggie had gone.
“Yes, Margaret’s father taught her.” He blew three smoke rings, the last passing through the first. “Did I do it?”
“Bull’s-eye. You should see them—” I stopped in embarrassment.
“It’s all right, m’boy, no need for blushes. The worst thing is for people to be conscious of my—infirmity. I’m used to it. Always amazes me how much I can see.”
“You have some vision still?”
“Blind as a bat. But I can see things in my head. The wonderful part is that for me they never change. Take Margaret, for example. I know she’s older now, but I see her exactly as she was when I lost my sight. And I get along. I have her, and my talking books. After Anna Karenina, I’ll undoubtedly get around to David Copperfield, finally. Is there a small bottle here somewhere?” His fingers were groping among the things at his elbow; I leaned over and put into his hand a rubber-stoppered bottle.
“That’s it, thanks.” As he removed his glasses and set them aside, I was astonished to see that he was not merely lacking vision, but that he lacked the very organs needed for vision. Drawing out the wads of cotton that filled the eyeless sockets, he put drops into each, set the bottle down, and replaced the cotton with fresh pieces. When he had screwed the top on the bottle, he felt for a paper tissue and used it on the lenses of his dark glasses.
“Haven’t seen a thing for a long time, but I still wipe my glasses every time I put them on. Creatures of habit, that’s what we are.” He settled the lenses over the bridge of his nose and felt for his cigar in the chrome stand at his side, then smoked in silence for several moments. “I must admit,” he said reflectively, “going blind came as quite a blow. Bound to, I suppose.”
I thought for an instant he was going to reveal the nature of his accident, but he dismissed the subject with a spin of his cigar tip, as though life’s horrors were unaccountable, and hence not worth discussion. “Some tragedies are unspeakable,” he went on, “but we must endure however we may. I’ll tell you something, m’boy, even though I enjoy my talking-books, I’d give up all the books in the world to see one star again. That’s what I miss the most, seeing the stars. We go out on the lawn sometimes at night and Margaret describes them to me; quite a one with the stars she is.”
“Quite a one with everything,” I said admiringly.
He nodded. “She’s a good right hand. Corrects my letters—I’m a rotten typist. Keeps me from bumping into things. Think of it, these many years of keeping a fellow from skinning his shins—that’s a career in itself. Margaret’s quite a woman.” He felt for the cigar stand and tapped his ash. “Anything particular on your mind?”
“Why?”
“Something in your voice.”
“Robert—what’s going to happen to Worthy?”
He shook his head, and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Hard to tell about Worthy. Lot of feeling ab
out that. You can’t go around damning the corn crop in this village and not have people angry.” Worthy, it seemed, had been given a ticket-of-leave, and was being held in the back room of the post office under the ancient statute of durance vile.
“But he hasn’t broken any law,” I protested.
“No—none that’s in the books. But in Cornwall Coombe there’s a code of ethics not to be tampered with. To go against one is to go against all. It’s not really a village, you know. It’s more a clan, a tribe.”
“Penrose tribe?”
“Partly. But a man has to show respect for both the village and its ways. What time is it?”
I looked at the clock on the desk. “Ten minutes to two.”
“They’ll be starting soon.” He ran his tongue around the inside of his lips, then ruminatively touched it to the tip of his cigar. “About Worthy. I suppose it’s a matter of—choices.” He paused, tapping his ash again. I had the feeling he was picking his words carefully.
“Some probably wouldn’t agree with me, but I believe a man’s fate is in his own hands. ‘Not in the stars, dear Brutus,’ as Shakespeare says. No matter what a fortune teller may say, or an astrologer or a seer, the events that come to a man are determined by him and how he adjusts to those events. We’re all offered choices. Our very existences often depend on these choices. Making the wrong one can change our lives, but at least the decision has been made; the brake has been released, the machinery can go forward again. But in going forward, it may bring a man to meet the fate he himself has sought.”
“Did Worthy make the wrong choice?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“But it’s such a small thing.”
“There are degrees of smallness. I can understand your being interested in the boy’s welfare, but it’s out of your hands. I wouldn’t worry. Most likely the elders’ll give him a lecture and let him off.”
He made a gesture, dismissing the subject, but still I felt that there was more to be said and resolved. He seemed to sense this in the silence. Nodding, he repeated Justin’s words.
“If you have questions, take them to the Widow.”
The church bell was tolling as I drove up to the Widow Fortune’s door and knocked. There was no reply. Nor was the buggy in the drive. I waited another moment, then continued on to the Common. Passing the church, I saw some women moving up the steps. Just inside the open vestibule doors, someone—Mrs. Green, I thought—was handing out slips of paper from a sheaf in her hands. I glimpsed the Widow’s white cap as she took one and started in. Her head turned quickly—a flash of expression, no more, but before she looked away again I read in her face things I had never seen there until that moment. Was it scorn? Contempt? Or was it denunciation?