Текст книги "Harvest"

Автор книги: Jim Crace

Соавторы: Jim Crace
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

13

T IS MIDDAY ALREADY AND I AM WAITING with the horses in the courtyard’s remaining rectangle of shade. The manor’s outline is straight-edged and motionless. Its sharpness has unsettled them. They resisted their saddles this morning, and are still peevish and resentful. Being in the sun under open skies and busy trees was preferable to this. Up till now, the last few days have been among the most unruffled of their lives. What space and liberty. They’ve not been fed before on hay as fresh as I’ve provided for them or, until yesterday, on such an uninterrupted abundance of apples. Had the groom been working and not nursing his cut face, he would have tethered them away from apples – especially the bitter codlings – and the fermenting colic they will cause, the fatal torsions and the windy flux. But I don’t care about the welfare of these strangers’ horses. I’ve watched them munch. I’ll let them suffer from our fruits. I will not wish Godspeed on them. By this time tomorrow they could well be too sick for traveling and my masters might be required to exercise their own legs for once. But for the moment the cobbles are clacking with hoofs and the air is murky with horses’ breath. They will not settle, no matter what I whisper in their ears. They know that soon they will be laden down with panniers and men.

I am relieved when the sidemen bring out the luggage and start to prepare for the journey. I am allowed to stand aside and be ignored. The sidemen do not want to meet my eye. I like to think they are ashamed, or even a little fearful of me. Perhaps they’ve heard I am their master’s latest chosen man, his eyes and ears, his watchman and custodian. They’ll be as glad to ride away from me as I will be to see their errant backs retreating from the manor house.

The final piece of luggage that they bring is the groom himself. He’s carried in a matting litter with not much care. I cannot see his face or any of his wounds until he’s helped to stand and lifted bodily onto the smallest and the least skittish of his mounts, a gelding with a mottled rump and flanks. The damage has been dressed, but his head and hair are caked in blood, and I can tell by how he holds himself, as shivered as a moth, that every movement inflicts pain on him. Three days of riding on rough ground, I think, and he will be either a mad man or a dead man. His little horse, if he survives my apples, will have requital then for every whip and switch the groom has ever laid on him. I would step forward for a closer view. I want to look the groom in the eye. I suppose I want him to see the bruises on my own face, of which he is to some extent the cause. But I have hardly taken one step forward when the door in the manor porch opens and the prisoners come out, in a line, and tied at wrist and waist. I think I’m seen at once by Kitty Gosse, although the sun is in her eyes and I am hidden in the wedge of shade. Her face contorts, although that might be pain and not the sight of me. Then Anne Rogers and the Gleaning Queen appear, their hands crossed on their aprons, their shoulders down like penitents.

I hesitate. I ought to hurry across the yard and comfort them. I might even give them hope. I would not want them to travel out before first understanding that soon, thanks to Master Kent’s interventions, for which I am to some extent the ransom price, they will be freed, to walk afar, untethered, in another place. But I’m afraid, and I’m too shocked by them to move. It’s not that they are wounded like the groom, not visibly, at least. It’s just that they are not the women I have known. And Lizzie Carr is not the girl. She still wears her green sash, surprisingly. She has it tied round her throat. It’s dirty now, I see, and torn. It might be bloody, in fact. But I am reminded briefly of how she once appeared, that little nervous scrap, exhorted by my master to step out of the chair of hands provided by her father and her uncle John and find a single grain, “just one. Then we will cheer. And you will be our Queen for one whole year.” She’d been the sweetest and the yellowest that ancient day. I’ll not forget her blowing on the grains to winnow off the flake and how the barley pearls were weighty on her palm. But now she is like chaff herself. A sneeze could lift her up and take her off. She’s hollowed out and terrified. What can it mean to her that she is being fastened to the saddle of a horse? What can it mean to Kitty Gosse and her friend Anne, the piper’s mother, who cannot know her son has abandoned her and taken all the other Rogerses with him, that the only neighbor here today is Walter Thirsk, who’s skulking in the shadows with a bruise across his face?

I can’t deny it’s cowardly, but, now that the horses have been taken off my hands, I am free to edge along the slice of shadow, doing what I can not to catch anybody’s eye again, and find some refuge in the open lane. My master Kent has had the same idea. He does not want to take part in the packing for departure, the tying and the stirruping. I find him dressed for travel in his high hat and long topcoat, staring out across the fields, with his back pressed against a maiden elm, its warped feet bright with lichen and its craggy trunk already warm with light. I’ve seen him in this place a hundred times, a pipe in hand, belonging here. We all have somewhere private hereabouts where we can press our backs. Today – such is the light, and such the sap green of his coat – he looks as if he’s part of it, a man of wood and leaf.

“This land,” he says, gesturing, “has always been much older than ourselves.”

I do not take his meaning straight away. I nod respectfully, expecting him to say more, when he’s found the words.

“So much older than ourselves,” he repeats in a whisper, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

I understand his meaning now: this ancient place would soon be new, he wants to say. We’re used to looking out and seeing what’s preceded us, and what will also outlive us. Now we have to contemplate a land bare of both. Those woods that linked us to eternity will be removed by spring, if Master Jordan’s saws and axes have their way. That grizzled oak which we believe is so old it must have come from Eden to our fields will be felled and rooted out. That drystone wall, put up before our grandpas’ time and now breeched in a hundred places, will be brought down entirely and replaced either with an upstart thorn or with some plain fence, beyond which flocks will chomp back on the past until there is no trace of it. We’ll look across these fields and say, “This land is so much younger than ourselves.”

My master takes his leave from me. We have embraced already this morning, in the orchard, beneath the apples and the hawks, and we are wise enough to let that parting serve. We could not better it. He does not even offer me his hand, but only puts a finger on my arm, and fixes me with the briefest show of eyes, as wide and white as they can be – he means me to remember this look; he means me to decipher it – before he turns toward his house, thehouse, his cousin’s house, and for the first time in a dozen years prepares to ride a horse other than Willowjack.

I find that I am running up the incline of the common fields toward the top end of our land, the one place where it is high enough to gain a pinched view of other parishes, that little clovered hillock which on Mr. Quill’s rough map marks the nose of the brawny-headed man which I now know to be our village from above. It’s just as well that I am on the move because I have an excuse to count my tear-filled eyes as proof of nothing more than my exertion. I am a man not used to moving fast. I can’t recall running for such a distance since I came to this village. There never was a need to hurry here. We value effort over haste. I half expect to hear my neighbors calling out, “What’s bitten your backside, Walt?” or “Where’s the fire?” or “Who the devil’s chasing you, for doing what?” They’d wonder at my weeping eyes.

I’m glad to sit and rest my lungs and legs on Clover Hill – now, there’s a name that Mr. Quill might like – until the travelers pass by. I’ve climbed up here because I know there is a stretch of lane where for, say, fifty paces, there are no hedges, trees or walls to curtain it from my view. I used to come here often years ago, before I settled in – yes, settledin; yes, fittedin; I can’t honestly say belonged—hoping I suppose to be the first to spot a visitor, some enterprising carter, say, a tinker with his colored and deceitful wares, a relative of Master Kent’s, perhaps (How could I know what that might mean for us?), some minstrel with a bag of songs and news of towns and palaces. But no one ever came to stay more than a day, of course. Not till this week, that is.

Now, I rest my arms across my knees, put my chin onto my wrists and allow the sun to dry me out. I am expecting cousin Jordan’s party soon. Until it comes, my master’s leaving, fixing stare is coaxing me. It shows wide and white again in my mind’s eye. I’ve not seen his face like that before, so mimed and meaningful. It was an accusation of a sort, I fear. A plea, as well. Yet it was fond, in its own way. My Cecily would sometimes bulb her eyes like that. Hers was a wifely nudge that meant there was a duty to be carried out, by me. Or else it was a warning that I had said too much, or gone too far, or not gone far enough. The eyes speak louder than the lips, it’s said – and they gather whispers better than the ears. My master’s final, whispered words—“Not anymore”—are coaxing too. His voice is quivered like a dove’s in this morning’s sun-stoked breeze, as if, far off, he’s cooing out to me. His voice is billowy, a sobbing parley in the wind, vabap-vabap. I catch only a gust or two. But I can tell it is a call to arms. It says that there are duties to be done. It says I haven’t yet gone far enough.

The cousins are riding at each other’s shoulders when they pass. I almost pick up their conversations. Even from this distance I can tell they are not ordinary men. I suppose their hats betray their standing. A workingman would never wear or even need to own a tall and heavy hat, or one with so deep a brim. Such hats belong to gentlemen who rarely need to bend their heads or swing a tool. A workingman could not afford to pass his day with so straight a back and so erect a head. It is as if these first two riders are suspended from their hats. All their wearers have to be is pendulous.

It’s disappointing to see how cousinly they are, my twin masters now. It would have made me happier, it would have helped my quandary, to see them riding far apart, not ear to ear. They are as close as two cloaks hanging from a pair of pegs. I cannot bear to think that they are friends or that there could be any liking between them. Blood is thicker than water, of course, and families are bound to observe truces which would not be kept outside the ties of kin. But the only blood these two have shared in common is Lucy Kent’s. The thread that links them is a flimsy one. Their seeming fellowship this afternoon is baffling.

I want to believe Master Kent has a stratagem. His accommodations are a plot, a subterfuge; that word I didn’t know before is proving its worth of late. But equally I fear the evidence of my own eyes – and my ears. There’s laughter, even, from the riders. Their high hats are not shaking but their shoulders are. In that meager distance between the courtyard of the manor house and this open stretch of lane, it could be that, flank on flank and simply with a shared click of the spurs, an allegiance has been forged between these two men, one that recognizes their joint interests, an acknowledgment of how their futures will be shaped, the benefits and moieties. I cannot truly blame my master Kent for that. He has to live. He has to have a roof. He’s lately done his best to intercede on behalf of our two women and our girl. He has secured, I must suppose, a living for me too. And now he’s thinking of himself. Perhaps that was all he meant by his briefest, widest show of eyes when he took leave of me at the maiden elm earlier today. Not a plea or an accusation after all. He was asking for my understanding, warning me of his defeat, showing me how wise it is to toe the line. I study him as he rides off. I’m almost tempted to call out. I want to say, “Not anymore.” But as it happens there’s no need. Perhaps he’s guessed I’m watching him. He knows my fondness for this clover tump. He might have even seen me sitting here. What’s certain is that as these two mounted gentlemen almost disappear behind a screen of elders and a raising wall, my master – the slightly shorter, less round-shouldered one – lifts his right arm as if he’s reaching up for fruit and twists his hand. It isn’t quite a wave. It’s not a farewell either. It’s more like a dancer’s curlicue, an unexpected gaiety, and not the gesture of a beaten man.

I’m standing up by the time the other horses and the other travelers come into view, at last. I do not waste my farewell waves on them. I don’t suppose they’re looking at the village hills. Their heads are down. They do not have the benefit of weighty hats to hang their bodies from. And they’re more laden than the masters. The wounded groom is the first to pass. He sets the pace for all the rest, and it is slow and torturous. He tries his best to sit upright, but every step is juddering. He lifts a bottle to his lips. I’m sure it will be Master Kent’s strongest cut-throat ale, or even better – quicker, that’s to say – some stupefying barley blaze. A few mouthfuls of that every now and then should dull the pain; too many and he’ll topple from his saddle. Two loaded horses follow, though I’m glad to see that little Lizzie Carr is sat on one of them, secured among the luggage like a market goose, a fancy goose in a green cloth wrap. I hope she makes it to a cozy place before our apples bring these horses to their knees. The widow Gosse and Anne Rogers walk at her side, tethered to the panniers with rope. And then the sidemen follow on, again dressed like foot soldiers in matching breeches, jerkins and brimless caps. They are not happy to be walking, I am sure, not happy to have lost their usual mounts to their master’s cousin and the devil’s girl. One of them steps forward every few paces to switch the horses’ flanks. I do not see it now, during this short stretch, but I’m sure he’ll switch the women’s flanks as well. Another carries a long stave. He’s stolen it from us. I recognize its cut. It’s too heavy for a walking stick. I do not want to think what it’s intended for.

My master is too far ahead to know what’s going on behind his back among his charges. Am I to be the only one to witness and know it all, the only one to wonder what this mounted pageant represents? Is that why I’ve been left behind? To watch this spectacle? It’s like a costumed enactment at a fair, a mummers’ show. I used to love them as a boy. I’d want to be the first to name the parts and identify the players from their garb. Today, I’m seeing Privilege, in its high hat. Then comes Suffering: the Guilty and the Innocent, including beasts. Then Malice follows, wielding its great stick. And, afterward, invisibly, Despair is riding its lame horse.

The lane is empty once again. This hilltop is a friendless place, and capped in cloud. I’ve brought the end-of-summer sorrows on myself. They spread their great black wings and cast their peckish shadows over me. The sun’s still shining in the valley but its warmth’s no longer reaching me. It is the middle of the afternoon, late harvesttime. I should be as dry and ripe as barleycorn. Instead, I feel as chilly as a worm. I feel no prouder than a worm. I am almost tempted to run down the hill to that now empty way and join the pageant as it heads off for a town. I’m panicking, not only for myself, but also for the prisoners, and the departed villagers, every one, and for Mr. Quill as well. I have to fight the nightmares. I can’t imagine living here for the coming seasons without someone to love or like, or any neighbor to share my troubles with. I can imagine living there, where they will be, above those smelling, busy, crowd-warmed streets, with Kitty Gosse as my hands-on-belly second wife. I can imagine bringing Lizzie Carr into our rooms and taking care of her. I’d be as loving as her uncle John, until the day that uncle John himself arrives. I can imagine being Master Kent’s town man again, like in those lively days when he was still a bachelor. The prospect is not frightening. It wouldn’t take me long to catch up with that mummers’ show. I could tag on at the end and follow Despair and his dejected mount as … Shame, perhaps. As Servitude. I’d put up with their switches and their staves, so long as I could be with them and not beset by cloud.

Instead, I hold my nerve and let them go forward without me, without the afterthought of Servitude or the extra burden of my Shame. I hurry along the cattle path and down the far side of the hill, into the sunshine again. Here, in warmer light, I dare to slow my step. I want to bide my time and make the most of what remains of this upsetting day. I am not ready to face the choices I must make or even guess what they might be. I do not want to see the manor house or any of the cottages. I do not want to face the pillory. My eyes are not entirely dry just yet. My mood is tumbling again. I’m suffering what Cecily used to call my wilts. But it is a mood that will pass, in my experience, with every step I take into the open and deserted fields. These poisonous and leaden squalls are familiar to me, as bewildering in their coming as they are swift in their going, though lately the wilts have become more frequent. Cecily’s parting is to blame. Without her love, I am an empty pod. I’m mourning her in tiny episodes, and will do, I suppose, until the mourning is complete. That day will never come, I think – and hope. There’s solace in the thought that I will never finish missing her. And I suppose there’s solace in the certainty that I will never finish missing here. I know I will not, cannot, must not, stay.

So I let the grieving have its way, as I escape from Clover Hill. I can allow myself to wallow like a village pig in the mud of my self-pity for a few more steps. I’m prone to that. I’m prone to feeling sorry for myself and feeling all the better for the indulgence. I allow my sadness to run its course, before I raise my head and, forging through a blizzard of thistledown which is falling up from the ground and supported by a breeze too soft for me to feel, I will myself to recognize what country folk are born to recognize, the amity in everything. Our fields are medicine. All days prove good to those that love the open air.

I pass our crest of great shade oaks, their first acorns and their summer leaf-fall cracking underfoot, and reach our flatter and more open ground, hardworking land, as flinty, thin and grizzled as a laborer. Here are pippinjays to keep me silent company. The four or five I see this afternoon are too busy defacing pears and crabs to speak or even notice me. And there are finches in the quicksets as I walk. For the time being, at least, they’re not short of anything to eat. They have the pick and peck of filberts, berries, hips and seeds. The hedges are heavy laden and grinning red with spoils, as if some puck has laid his magic wand upon their branches and ordered them to gem. This is the age of mushrooms too. It’s a mistake to think that, just because the barley’s in, the land has lost its openhandedness. Each weed and tree enjoys a harvest of its own.

Yet every plant and creature also knows that summer’s in retreat. The wayside dandelions have whitened slightly in the last few days. They’re growing pale with age. The year is leaving us. As are the swallows. A dozen or so are already vit-vitting overhead, preparing for their chinless journeys south. They always feel the chilling and the thinning of the air before we do, and understand when it is time to leave. I should not mind their parting. They’ve taken all the summer flies they can. They’ve kept our cattle company enough. They need to look elsewhere. Somewhere better, I suppose. For all its warmth, the sunlight is slanting lower than it was a day ago. What sky is blue is more thinly so this afternoon. The woodland canopies, viewed from this sloping field, are sere or just a little pinched with rust, the first signs of the approaching slumber of the trees. Come, maids and sons of summer, get ready for the winter ice. Your day is shortening. The air is nipping at your cheek; the cold is tugging at your wrist. The glinting spider’s thread will turn in a little while to glinting frost. It’s time for you to fill your pies with fruit, because quite soon the winds will strip the livings from the trees and thunder through the orchards to give the plums and apples there a rough and ready pruning, and you will have to wait indoors throughout the season of suspense while weather roars and bends outside. The dead leaves fly. They’re cropped and gathered to the rich barn of the earth.