Grim Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  McGlazer panicked that the same fate would befall the other jars. He reached for one, like a man trying to rescue a thousand-dollar bill from a fire. But it collapsed and dissolved on itself, the liquid soaking into the wood of his desk like varnish.

  He heard his own strident groan of despair, fighting shame as he inspected the drawer.

  Empty except for the candy, the note cards and the mushroom cluster.

  “God dammit!” he bellowed, heaving the desk over onto its back and sending a mini storm of sharp pains across his half-healed injuries.

  Despite the discomfort, he knelt to check under the desk. The fungus on the carpet still held to the bottom of the drawer by a few thin strands stretched to near-breaking. A brown plume rose like a tiny Hiroshima—a very literal mushroom cloud.

  McGlazer instinctively covered his nose and mouth and backed away from the puff of spores, reasoning that a good snort of hundred-fifty proof would probably kill anything he had just inhaled. But right now, it had to be cleaned up.

  The reverend covered his lower face with a handkerchief, but he knew some of the weird spores had entered him, and he knew he was kind of glad, because it somehow promised a return of the precious shine…if he did its bidding. Whatever “it” was.

  Rather than getting rid of the mushroom, McGlazer decided to hide it.

  He grappled his desk upright and put everything back in order, then opened a hymnal and tented it over the fungus in the drawer, like he was just saving his place.

  For the growth under the desk he cut the top and bottom out of a small box and formed it as a shelter. Stella would still eventually find it, but this would buy him time to—what?

  Inhale more of it?

  The ghost of a sweet taste from days of chaos haunted his mouth.

  It was there in him; the memory of every precious drop, every second of euphoric escape. That perfect peak before the crash and aftermath. The mushroom would help him find it again.

  * * * *

  Miss Dietrich whispered into the phone as she walked past the bedroom Candace shared with little Emera. Between kitchen, dining room, and the so-called family room she strode, and then back again, gesticulating less subtly than she spoke.

  Fourteen-year-old Candace Geelens, the newest arrival at the group home, just a month behind Emera, knew it would sound paranoid if she ever told anyone she was certain the housemother’s whisperings were about her. But it would be a safe bet.

  No sooner had Candace arrived home from school that day than little Emera, her hand-me-down Corpse Bride printed dress decorated with juice stains, took her hand and pulled her to their room, excited to have the older girl’s help with some coloring.

  Both girls lay on the floor filling in a picture in a dog-eared coloring book of an arch-backed cat. Though the caption read “A black cat screeches at the moon!” Candace chose to render it as a vibrant orange tabby. Little Emera, glancing over from the next page, beamed. Barely four years old, Candace’s little roommate gravitated to her like a tiny moon. When Emera spoke—which was rare—it was usually to call for Candace in a joyous tone.

  Candace pushed the book toward Emera and gave her the orange crayon. The happy child took it reverently and did her very best to retrace Candace’s light shades and darker stripes.

  There was more sibilance from Mrs. Dietrich as she came to their room and clicked off the phone. “You girls okay?”

  “Yes Mrs. Dietrich,” Candace said. The formal title had not been insisted upon, yet Candace felt it was only appropriate. Her own deceased Mamalee had not been perfect, but she’d been loving and attentive, and she was the only “mom” Candace would ever have.

  “Dinner will be in about forty.” Mrs. Dietrich pointed at her watch with the phone’s antenna, her smile creasing her face. Late thirties looked more like late forties on the woman, thanks to a stressful lifetime spent caring for troubled children of every age and origin.

  Just a few days ago, Candace had found a single gray strand in her own shoulder-length curls and examined her face for similar worry lines. The lines weren’t there, but Candace was sure they were coming soon—just as sure as she was that her “dead” brother Everett was.

  “You sure you don’t want to go outside while you can?” Mrs. Dietrich asked.

  Laughter and a high-pitched shout came from the home’s other six kids in the back yard. Candace wasn’t enticed. She found it strange that the house mother even made the suggestion, given Candace’s recent history with the others. “No ma’am. I’m fine with Emera.”

  “Okay.” Mrs. Dietrich left. Emera hopped up and peeked down the hall for any other kids that might have straggled inside. Satisfied to see no one, she went back to the orange tabby and gave it a name. “Canniss!”

  Chapter 3

  The Children

  The ragged putter of Pedro Fuentes’s Honda Civic assailed the ears of Stuart and DeShaun through the open garage door, as they pushed several garbage bags full of infant clothes under Hudson’s work table.

  “Pedwo!” said Wanda, splashing her chubby little hands in Bravo’s water bowl. The big mastiff, presently closed into DeShaun’s room, was living with the Lotts while the adoption system buffeted his owner Candace.

  “Yep,” responded Wanda’s big brother DeShaun. “Unca Pedro.”

  “Well, that’s one,” noted Stuart.

  “We can’t make ’em show up, dude,” DeShaun said.

  A minute later, Pedro entered, dressed in cargo shorts and a long sleeve Cannibal Corpse T-shirt, carrying a guitar case. “Yeah, this could work.”

  “You’re welcome,” DeShaun said, as he and Stuart lifted the lawnmower and set it against the wall.

  “Not hatin’ man,” Pedro said. “Just don’t expect Dennis or Jill to show.”

  “Great,” grumbled Stuart. “All this work for nothing.”

  Bravo barked excitedly from the backyard, more than ready for his afternoon walk.

  “Just a second, Brav!” Stuart answered. “Gotta get Pedro started.”

  Wanda toddled over to Pedro. He set down the guitar case and picked her up to rock her. “Maybe you losers could start filling in and I could get some real practice.”

  “Yeah right,” DeShaun huffed. “You want me to sing?”

  “Maybe, if your nuts ever finish dropping.”

  Stuart laughed out loud, while DeShaun, ever the good sport, beamed. His changing voice had been the source of much recent ribbing.

  “You think they’re gonna break up?” Stuart asked.

  “Dude, I’m no couples counselor,” Pedro answered. “Last time me and Dennis talked it was at an alarming volume. If those two pull through, it won’t be because of me.”

  They cast uncertain frowns at each other, until Wanda pointed at Pedro’s guitar case and proclaimed “Aah, eh.”

  “All right lady,” Pedro said. “You want it, you got it.”

  DeShaun went out to get Pedro’s amp, while Stuart opened the case and checked tuning on the beat-up bass.

  * * * *

  Candace sat beside little Emera in the TV room, on the couch that bore overlaid smells of the home’s staple snacks and drinks. The little girl was engrossed in an episode of The Funky Phantom she’d already seen at least seventeen times that Candace had counted.

  With the other kids now in the basement to play ping pong and board games, Candace slipped off to her room and sat down to write Stuart, as she often did in her rare spare time, whenever Emera was occupied.

  She took her notebook from its hiding place in a desk cubby under Ana’s stack of coloring books and closed her eyes to see the faces of her friends from Ember Hollow, especially Stuart Barcroft’s sidewise smile and squinty laugh expression. Writing to him was release, confession, venting and personal assessment.

  Mr. Dietrich knocked lightly on the open door, careful not to st
artle, and stuck his head in. “Getting groceries,” he gently whispered. “Any requests?”

  “A pumpkin pie, if it’s not too much trouble?” It had been a perennial favorite, back when she had a family.

  He left, and Candace opened the notebook and switched on the desk lamp.

  Dear Stuart,

  Not much has changed since last time. Emera still follows me around like a puppy. She’s so cute, but sometimes I get tired. Not really making friends with the other kids. Maybe it’s me. It’s so hard to be around people I don’t know right now. Sometimes, I think about Everett.

  He’s still out there. Somewhere. But I can’t talk about it to anyone. I know better now.

  Sometimes though I wonder if what I feel is not really him.

  I wonder if maybe I …

  Emera cried out a little bit, from the family room. Candace thought the girl must have noticed she was gone. “I’m in here, Emenemema!” The little one always liked it when Candace called her that.

  The little girl did not respond. Candace expected her to come running in, grab her hand and drag her back to the TV.

  She gave the letter a read-through, wondering how she had meant to finish that last sentence. But for her handwriting, it seemed foreign to her, like someone else had written it.

  Emera remained quiet.

  Candace got up and went to check. When she entered the family room, she didn’t see Emera. The other children stood in a circle, holding their hands over their mouths for some reason. To muffle their giggling. To keep Candace from hearing.

  “What are you guys doing?” she asked, pushing through the circle.

  Emera was on her back, held by Rebecca. “Oh look.” The hulking girl had Emera pinned with one hand and covered the little girl’s mouth with the other. “It’s the bitch from the crazy family.”

  The other kids, no longer needing to be discreet, burst out in laughter.

  Beside Rebecca stood Radley, leaning over Emera, drooling a rope of spittle toward her terrified face.

  Candace spun toward the hall, certain that Mrs. Dietrich would be standing there, righteous fury on her face. No such luck.

  “Leave her alone, you asshole!” Candace lunged, shoving Radley away just as the saliva rope broke loose. It missed Emera and pooled beside her head.

  She glared down at Radley sprawled with his back against the television, spit strung across his chin. She was not prepared for the hard shove from behind that sent her face-first nearly into the TV screen beside him. She caught herself with her hands but was helpless to prevent the double kick to the ribs from the prone Radley that sent her crashing on her side.

  “Go to hell you crazy bitch!” yelled Radley.

  Rebecca kept her foot on Emera’s little arm, daring Candace with her cruel eyes to try to defend the squalling girl.

  Candace was not afraid. But the feeling wasn’t bravery either.

  She got up and stormed past Rebecca and out of the room, no longer conscious of Mrs. Dietrich and her negligent absence. Navigating through a haze of scarlet, she went to the kitchen. Bypassing a rolling pin and a frying pan, she went straight to the butcher block beside the sink that sprouted a gorgeous bouquet of steel flowers.

  She drew an eight-inch boning knife that was beautiful and perfect.

  She stormed back to the living room where hostile faces waited. Rebecca still had Emera pinned. Radley loomed over the little one, sneering, set to punish the child for having a friend. Then the faces changed, and the circle cleared when they saw the knife—and Candace’s eyes.

  Screams erupted from gap-toothed mouths. Young bodies contorted into panicked poses as the kids sacrificed one another to escape razor wrath.

  Rebecca muscled past the others and bolted for the front door, but Radley didn’t get the chance. Candace stormed toward him with the knife raised.

  “No, please!”

  “Candace!” came a shriek that froze her, and suddenly Mrs. Dietrich had her in a crushing hug. Radley issued a sob, darkly satisfying, as he scrambled to run away.

  “It’s me, Candace,” Mrs. Dietrich said breathlessly. “Calm down!”

  Candace’s mind reeled. She replayed the last few seconds in her mind. It felt like she had only been a spectator.

  “Put the knife down,” Mrs. Dietrich ordered softly.

  Candace dropped it and eyed Emera. The toddler was like a shell-shocked soldier.

  * * * *

  “Aaaagh, dude it’s like trying to walk an effing triceratops!” Stuart complained, as he and DeShaun struggled to keep hold of Bravo’s leash.

  “How does an eighty-pound mutt out-muscle two teenagers?” DeShaun asked breathlessly.

  “Bravo!” Stuart called, “Heel!” The dog did stop, regarding the boys patiently as he caught a few quick pants. They plopped onto the curb at the edge of someone’s lawn and caught their breath, all hands on the leash.

  “He just wants to get home,” DeShaun noted.

  “You think he thinks Candace is at their old house?” asked Stuart.

  “I think he knows exactly where she is,” DeShaun noted. “Remember how he found her last year after the parade?”

  “What a smart dog.”

  Bravo turned to regard the boys, as if appreciating the compliment, but then his ears pricked, his nose went to work, and he peered off toward the horizon again.

  “I hate keeping him chained up all the time,” DeShaun said. “But if we let him get loose, we might never catch him.”

  Still gripping the leash vigilantly, the boys lay back on the grass and examined the yellow sky and the leaves spiraling across it.

  “Too bad we can’t take him to visit her with us,” DeShaun continued.

  “Been meaning to talk to you about that,” Stuart said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Her letters. She thinks her brother is coming back.”

  “Damn…” DeShaun shook his head slowly.

  “And the other kids at the home pick on her about…him.”

  The boys furrowed their brows at each other. “That’s not cool,” DeShaun said.

  “It’s worse,” Stuart said. “The grown-ups are really weir—”

  They were hoisted to their feet. Bravo was pointing like a setter, straining at the leash, even as he rasped from constriction.

  “He’s ready to go, I think,” DeShaun said, stumbling to catch up.

  “I think he knows, man!” Stuart said. “He senses something wrong and he wants to protect her.”

  Bravo just trudged, one foot after the other, dragging the boys relentlessly. Panting and panting, ears perked up, he ignored other dogs that barked at him and pedestrians who wanted to pet him, ever focused on going forward.

  “When he gets tired again, we gotta try to get him turned around,” DeShaun said. “Or one of the Mas will come searching for us again.”

  Chapter 4

  Season of the Witch

  The sunset, a crimson comet plummeting behind the emptying trees, did not comfort her as usual.

  Matilda Saxon stood at the edge of her porch, scratching the scalps of her goats Argyle and Amos, watching the shimmering orb meet the treetops. The nightly ritual always connected her to nature and refilled her reserves. It brought peace and balance. She used to rock in her old chair, petting and baby-talking her goats. Now she stood rigid with dread.

  The evening ritual had changed the day that first letter came from the penitentiary, the one that all but screamed to be burned and forgotten.

  Matilda’s profession was witchcraft, as it had been her mother’s, and uncounted generations of Saxon women before. At forty-two, healthy and youthful, Matilda was well-versed in her craft.

  Her specialty? The black arts.

  She had seen her mother and grandmother work baneful magic on occasion. When a no-good philan
derer had made threats of harm, and then made good on them. When an arsonist had left an immigrant family homeless and went untouched by the law.

  The matrons had agonized and fought each other over these decisions. They had banished themselves, accepting a lifelong self-imposed isolation in the aftermath. They warned Matilda, begged her, made her promise never to do as they did.

  Matilda, once grown and on her own, had carried on the magical traditions of her bloodline, content to keep her promise for many years. But for Matilda, as for everyone, life became ever less simple. Black and white became gray, money matters got mean. Matilda knew that human nature leans toward quick fixes to stupid problems. Wisdom is just hindsight coupled with wishful thinking.

  She had inherited an ancient house in need of upkeep, surrounded by daunting forest, on a scrubby tract connected to unused fields, far up in the hills of Cronus County. Her mindset and value system made her too odd to marry. It was a formula for bitterness, a rationale for cynical self-service.

  On occasions that a client’s desperation aligned with Matilda’s, she accepted money for raising petty blights and banes—to cool a love affair, delay a destiny, plant a seed of illness—feeling less remorse with each commission. Those who can afford to feel spite can afford—or will gain—the means to see it satisfied, and the demand for baneful spell-work far exceeded that for the benevolent kind. Over time, Matilda had gained a clientele of shady types, and soon after that, outright criminals. She no longer found herself approached for such matters as blessing crops, influencing love, or ensuring job promotions.

  As her craft had gotten blacker, she’d found herself drawn to the Greek wilderness deity Pan, focusing and calling upon him most often. Why, Matilda could not say for sure. Rumor had it that town founder Wilcott Bennington had favored Saturn, a.k.a. Cronus. Perhaps there was something about Ember Hollow’s endless fields of pumpkins and corn and hay, the breadth of its plunge into the essence of autumn that attracted fertility and agriculture spirits.