Harvest

by Jim Crace

  It’s tempting even now to pack up and leave at once. I’m not indentured to this place, after all. I have no witnesses who’ll care if I depart ahead of time. I’ve given Master Jordan my reluctant nod. But we hardly touched when we shook hands on it. My fingers only clacked against his rings. In the end it’s not the nod or the clacking that are bound to keep me here. It’s Master Kent’s wide-stretched eyes of yesterday, and what I came to understand last night that they mean to me, what it is I have to do, what I should start, before I go, the folds and trenches I must leave behind. And so I dress, and arm myself with the old short sword with which the first Edmund Jordan is reputed to have felled a cattle thief more than thirty years ago and which, from the brown-stained point, I suspect has been used again more recently. Then I search the manor house for the master’s chain of mostly unused keys. Mistress Beldam’s husband need not serve his sentence out, so long as he agrees to help me with the plow.

  I can only guess what he’s thinking as I approach the pillory. I know that he will recognize at once how uneasy and shamefaced I am. There is no hiding it. My body feels as tense and knotted as a yew. I want to smile at him, to show I mean him well and that the blood-tipped sword I’m carrying need not be a cause for alarm, so long as he does not make it so himself. But the muscles in my face are not relaxed enough. My smile of greeting is fixed and artificial. I’m feeling sick to the stomach, actually. With apprehension, I suppose. But at least I’ve had a comfortable bed for the night and nearly enough sleep and I am thinking clearly. I know how I intend to spend the day. I cannot do it on my own.

  If he is feeling any fear of me, my frozen face, the sword, my troubled bustle of intent, he does not have the strength to show it. I haven’t thought how weakened he will be from staying still and doing nothing for so many days. We thought his and his father-in-law’s punishment was mild when we sent them to the pillory for only seven days. That and the snapping of their bows, the clipping of their heads. “Count yourselves as fortunate,” they were told. In other places, less hospitable than here, they might have expected a beating and a hanging. But, now that I am looking at him in the light—our past encounters have been largely in the dark—I can see how summer has sapped out of him, how he has paled, how he’s hanging drily from the cross of wood. His arms were thick and oaky when they cuffed him there. I cannot say that they have become thin exactly, but they are certainly not muscular. They’re drained of blood and energy. His wrists and throat are still bruised purple from when he has attempted to pull himself free. His eyes are hollowed out, from lack of proper sleep,perhaps. His lips are crusted; orange funguses, dry cracks. And his neck is swollen with insect bites and red with sores where he’s tried to itch them on the wood.

  “I have the key,” I say to the crown of his head, blackened now with new thick growth. He will not look at me. “I’ve stolen it.” His forehead furrows. He might mean, So what? Or, Not before time. Or, My itchy neck is ready for your sword. Take off my head, and let’s be done with it.

  “I’ve stolen it,” I say again. He needs to know I’m taking risks for him. “I have been instructed not to let you go until you’ve served every moment of a week. But I think you know, I’m the only friend you’ve had about these parts. I’ve never wished you any harm …” His forehead furrows for a second time: So what? “I’m free to walk away, if you prefer.”

  “Do what you will.”

  “What is your name?” I need to make a friend of him.

  “It’s mine to keep,” he says.

  I’m tempted—momentarily convulsed by the impulse, in fact—to bring the sword down sharply on his neck. He is enraging me. I do not feel I’ve earned his disrespect. Instead, I only lay it flat across his infuriating forehead, and slowly tell him with my mouth no distance from his ear what his situation is: “There’s no one else can help you now. There’s no one left excepting me. And, as you see”—I rattle them—“I am the master of the keys.”

  “Say what you want from me.”

  “I want a little help with farming. For a day.” This time he nods. A day of farming is a task he understands. “And there are other recompenses … for the time you’ve spent … with us.” I tell him briefly that the villagers have gone. The masters and the sidemen too. So he is free, as soon as we have finished with the field, to walk among our cottages and help himself to anything he wants. There’re animals that he can take. And winter food. And if he chooses he can fill a wagon with our produce and our implements and draw them to the nearest marketplace. “I’ll make the pair of you”—he lifts his eyes, to mark my slantwise mention of his wife—“quite rich. For just a single day of labor in my field.” My field, indeed. My true and only field. “What do you say?”

  “I say you are the man who holds the sword. I say you are the master of the keys.”

  I hope to be less clumsy with the keys, but I can’t tell without testing them one at a time which will shoot the lock. My hand is shaking. I have to drop the sword down on the ground, so that I can use both hands. I put my foot onto the shaft, so that he cannot snatch it up as soon as he’s released. Of course, he’s in no state to snatch at anything. He sinks down to his knees the moment that I lift off the topmost beam. I’ve freed him to collapse. I let him sit and rub his legs and arms, while I stand back deciding if it’s safe to trust the man. I think I’ve bought him with my promises of wealth. In all honesty, he could freely rub the blood back into his limbs, then club me to the ground and still be free to help himself to anything he wants, including my short sword. But there has been something in his manner that I trust. A scheming man would not have treated me with such disdain. He’d not have told me, Do what you will. A scheming man would have been more eager to offer help and quick to let me know his name. A scheming man would have lied, and he’d have made promises to break.

  I take a chance and leave him recovering in the grass while I walk back along the lane toward the manor house. I mean to fetch him water and a little bread and cheese. I pick up windfalls for the man on my way back. I’m half expecting him to have fled, or armed himself with one of the churchyard stones, the sort his wife used if she murdered Willowjack, and used again on Mr. Quill last night, in dreams. But he is still sitting by the pillory. His back is resting on its shaft. His legs are stretched out across the ground that he has scuffed for the past few days. He evidently still has pins and needles in his feet and arms. He is flexing his shoulders, and in pain. But I can tell that, not so long ago, he’d been a tough and worthy man. He’s cut a bit of barley in his time. He looks much like a weary harvester, glad to have his apple, bread and cheese.

  I tell him I’ll return when he has eaten and is stronger. That frown again. But this time it’s a frown that gives me confidence. The meal I’ve brought to him and he’s accepted signifies a truce. He’s broken bread with me. I do not think he’s had such hospitality from any other villager or either of the masters. I take a further chance, and put the short sword at his feet. “Defend yourself if anybody comes,” I say, though it doesn’t make any sense for me to take that risk. No one will come. No one except his wife, perhaps, or Mr. Quill, unlikely though that seems. But I’ve shown I trust him, and hold his future welfare close to me. Laying down my sword has made a comrade out of him, a fellow victim of the world. I am the scheming one, it seems. If Mistress Beldam’s watching us, and I suspect she is, she will see that I’m a friend. I even whistle as I walk away to show how confident I am in him, and her.

  But as soon as I’m out of earshot I let my whistling stop. Now I am talking to myself, drawing up a list of things to do. At first it feels like any other day at summer’s end. There’s fuel to cut and stack. There’s field keeping and hedge trimming that must be done. There’re falling walls and damaged barns to fix. This is the season of repair. It also is the season of prepare, when we make ready for the coming spring. I know that I will need some oxen for my task. We have a team of four allowed to pasture on the fallow fields and in the commons. They are swee
t-natured animals, despite their crescent horns and deep bullish dewlaps. They have only to rest and eat all day and contend with nothing but the flies. The one thing they have to bother them is work, and that’s sporadic hereabouts. It saves them from the butcher, though. So long as they are strong, they’ll not end up as beef or leather. We’ll not make cups out of their horns, or fashion bobbins, toys and dice out of their bones, or even boil down their hoofs for glue, until their natural deaths. Our oxen lead an easy life.

  I can’t remember exactly where we have tethered them, and so I have to go from gate to gate until I catch sight of their white snout patches and the insides of their comical pink ears. Their bodies—donkey-gray and mottled—blend in with the undergrowth. There’re only two of them today. The smallest of the four. My neighbor families have taken the other two with them, first to draw their carts of family goods and then, perhaps, to trade them at the next village they reach. I rope the remaining pair, lead them on their strong, bone-weary legs down the lane and tie them at our tool barn, where they’re content to graze on fence weeds by the door. Oxen do not have the reasoning of horses and so they tend to be more pliable and patient. They’re steadier; their winter keep is cheaper too. A horse will smell the saddle in another room or hear the pulling on of riding boots and start to kick in protest. An ox won’t know he’s needed for draft work until the moment that he has to pull—and even then he can’t be bothered to protest.

  I’ve always loved this little barn. It’s ramshackle. It never mattered if the light got in, or rats, or rain: we didn’t keep anything edible inside. We let the martins and the swallows nest in it, the robins too. We didn’t mind if nettles set up house. When I was a greenhorn here and working none too usefully with the Saxtons on the land, I used to be the one they’d send—their big, slow-witted child—to collect and return their working tools. I think they had a lot of fun with me, demanding things they knew I could not recognize by name. Bring us some seed-lips and the suffingales, they’d say. We need some hog-yokes and a beetle wedge. Even when I’d learned exactly what they meant, I’d still persevere with bringing back the least required of implements—a mold spear when they meant a cradle scythe; a weed hook when they wanted one for reaping—just for the pleasure of their laughter. And also for the pleasure of having to visit the tool barn once again.

  Today, the tool barn is sweating in the heat, a heat that promises a storm. I need—we need, my volunteer and I—to get to work. The swing plow is the lighter of the two and nearest the barn door, but I know that with just two oxen instead of the usual team of four and only two pairs of hands to manage it, I need a set of wheels to support the beam at its fore end. To plow today without a set of wheels would be too difficult and punishing. I’d not get any depth of furrow. The implement would throw its weight against the stilts and handles, and nothing we could do would tame it. So, I pull the swing plow to the side, and in the slanting shafts of light, busy with the dust that I am throwing up, I find the parts of the second plow, the one with wheels. I pull them clear and start to line them up outside the barn.

  I do not need to go back to the pillory for my help. He is standing with the oxen, watching me. All three of them are watching me. He must have heard the clatter of the tools, and understood that he should come. He’s ready for the labor. I cannot say he seems a happy man, but at least he looks more upright than he did this morning. And his color has improved, no longer donkey-gray and as mottled as the beasts. He’s brought the sword with him, I see. But that seems sensible. He will not offer any help until I say he should. He doesn’t even greet me. I am the elder man and might expect at least a nod. He does speak, though. “Nose before ear,” he says, without any warmth or flavor to his voice.

  I stand and nod at him, surprised. How has he understood so much? It’s not a phrase I’ve heard for quite a while. Possibly he only means it plainly. He thinks I’m not a practiced countryman. He wants me to remember that when I put the plow parts together, the coulter knife that opens up the soil—the nose—must go before the share, the wider blade. And that giant’s arrowhead which cuts the furrow must go before the moldboard—the ear—that throws the ridge. Only a fool or a townsman—me, he thinks, perhaps—would attempt anything different. Without the coulter at the front, the earth will not give way. Without the moldboard at the rear, the earth will not be sufficiently turned.

  But there is a greater meaning to the phrase. It is a warning—among country folk, at least—that life should be allowed to proceed in its natural and logical order. In other words, you do not eat before you cook, you do not weave before you shear, you do not attempt to light the fire until you have the kindling, and—to the point—you cannot reap your corn until you’ve plowed and sown seed. He’s obviously guessed what this day of work will be. He understands its greater meaning too: that plowing is our sacrament, our solemn oath, the way we grace and consecrate our land. Not to mark our futures in the soil before the winter comes is to say there’s no next year. I cannot admit to that. The coming spring must be defended. So, we’ll put the nose before the ear. And then we’ll plow.

  “Come help me, then,” I say.

  As he moves toward me, I can tell he must have been a plowman in the past, before he was a newcomer. His skew is very slightly whiffed, another country phrase. You can always spot a plowman from his uneven legs, they say: the long one’s for the furrow and the short one’s for the ridge. So I let him do the assembly work. I steady the share-beam while my new associate secures the blades, the moldboard and the yoke. And then we set off for the barley stub, a pair of willing oxen and a pair of workingmen, intending to stir and loosen soil one final time.

  The barley field has lost much of its spruce since harvesting. It takes only a few days of neglect for weeds and tares to settle in. Already there are newcomers, a tough-leafed smear of green where there was rusty gold. But still the marks my neighbors made are there to read for anyone that knows them well. That knew them well, I ought to say. The stubble has preserved their signatures. Here is our proof we brought the harvest in ourselves. I can tell where neighbor Carr and men like him—thorough, puritanical—have swept their scythes. The cut is low, the stubble short, no longer than a thumb. They haven’t missed a blade of straw, and I am sure they won’t have missed much barley either. Gleaners shouldn’t step in neighbor Carr’s unstinting wake, unless they don’t want any ale for the winter evenings. The wavy cut is Brooker Higgs’s best work. He’s always busy talking when he reaps. His head is raised. His circles are too large. The more he reaches out, the more of the corn he misses. The tallest stub, up to the knee in places, is eager children’s work, or the best that Willy Kip with his bad back can do. His portion looks as if the field was the victim of a massacre. Some horsemen came and, leaning from their saddles, felled the barley with their swords.

  It seems an age since I was here with Mr. Quill and Master Kent. We’d named our Gleaning Queen and the master had said what he always says about “this noble day,” how in order of their station everyone and everything would benefit from gleaning—the families who worked so hard, the thoughtless cattle and the thankless geese, and finally the hogs. He had not said that hogs precede the oxen and the plow. He had not reminded us that this once-was barley field was set aside for winter-planted wheat. He had not promised that bread would follow beer. I remember thinking, bitterly, So our master’s dreams for us do not include another crop. Our final harvest must have come and gone. I remember Master Jordan’s words: “You’ll never need the plow again.” We’ll see.

  Mistress Beldam’s husband has taken charge. I’m left to lead the animals and urge them on, flicking their pink ears. He grasps the plow handles and plants his feet into the soil, leaning back in expectation of the pull. He has to find a leverage that takes account of cattle, beam and soil, and finding it ennobles him: I’ve not seen his face so passionate up till now, or so full of consequence. He knows what plowing is. If anyone is watching—and I hope Mistress Beldam is—it will l
ook as if he’s pulling against the oxen rather than working with them, that he’s the strongest of the three. Just for today, he’s walking on a field in heaven rather than on earth, he’s plowing up the lands of time, marking out the ridges and the furrows of a trying life. I can tell he has debts to settle of his own. Did not Mr. Quill say that these newcomers were fugitives from sheep themselves, exiles from their own commons? That would explain the man’s evident keenness to commence. We’ve broken bread together. Now he wants to break the earth with me. We’ll liberate the spirits of the soil. We’ll let the little devils breathe.

  The key to plowing is to hold a steady line, to be symmetrical, a skill I never quite mastered. I point down the field at a tapered oak which stands high above the hedgerow in the dell. That is the headland we will be aiming for with our first cut, I say. I fancy that even the oxen lift their heads and take a line on it. They place it in the middle of their horns. The oak is known for being still. It will not duck its head or lean, no matter what the winds might try. An oak is trustworthy. It wants the plow to find a true, straight way, then it can preside all year over a pattern that is pleasing to its eye.

  The field seems limitless from where we stand, and beyond our mastery. It would normally take twelve days to plow its stubble under, even if we had our usual team of four oxen, and twenty brawny men to help and take their turns. But we are only two, and we do not mean to make a meal of it. We mean to make only a day of it. A narrow scar is all we have in mind: a field length down, the headland turn, a field length back. We will, though, do our best to make a noble and an honest scar. It will be straight and proud if good fortune labors at our sides. The single central ridge will be a proper height, the pair of furrows deep. “This will be … to all of our advantages,” I tell my helpmate, hoping to provoke a conversation. But he stays silent. He loops the reins over his head, with a practiced hand and a fitting nonchalance, and holds them taut round his right shoulder and under his left arm. I flick the oxen. We begin. Three steps, and already we are opening a top and putting up a high-backed slice of soil.