The Harvest Man (12 page)

D
ay didn’t have time to react to the boulder coming at him. It weighed seventy pounds, more than enough to crack his skull, and more than enough to fall quickly through the leaves and small branches before a man could move.

The damp underbrush saved his life. He was just beginning to lean forward, trying to see the boys on the crude platform above him, when the tip of his cane slipped. He compensated by letting go of it and putting his weight on his bad leg just as the boys let go of their giant rock. Day’s leg gave out and he fell against the tree’s broad trunk. The rock plummeted neatly through the air behind him, grazing the tail of his overcoat and smashing into the ground, pushing mud and dirty water out on every side. The hems of Day’s trousers were soaked. In the quiet seconds directly after, he worried he was turning into Hammersmith.

He got his balance and turned, sank back against the tree, and stared at the rock embedded in the soil inches from his feet. It was as big around as his chest. His cane lay on either side of it and under it, divided into two big pieces and many more small pieces that were now a part of the forest floor. He was surprised by his own reaction, which was no reaction at all.

“Huh,” he said.

“Are you hurt?”

He looked up at the tree. There was a tunnel over his head where the rock had stripped away leaves and splintered branches on its journey to the ground. Water dripped down through the opening and onto his upraised face. It felt cool and pleasant.

“I’m all right,” he said.

“Good,” Robert said. Day still couldn’t see him, but the boy’s voice was clearer than it had been, and louder. “We didn’t mean to hurt you. Not really.”

“Yes, you did. You tried to drop this big rock on my head. You might’ve killed me.”

“We didn’t really think about what would happen until we let go of the rock and by then it was too late. We didn’t want to kill you. We just want you to go away.”

“How did you get this up there, anyway?” Day circled the rock, patted the top of it, and wiped it dry with the palm of his hand. He turned and sat and watched the leaves move overhead.

“We used a rope and pulley system.”

“That’s quite clever.”

“I read about it in a book. We got the pulley from a farm west of us.”

“You didn’t steal it, did you?”

“It was old and rusted. Somebody left it in a culvert.”

“We cleaned it up.” Simon’s voice now, higher pitched and full of pride. “It took a long time.”

“Then we clumb up to our secret place here and hung it in the branches,” Robert said.

“It took us three days to pull the rock up here,” Simon said. “We had to keep tying the rope round the tree when we went home to bed.”

“Quite clever of you,” Day said again. “
Industrious
is the word.”

“Thank you,” Robert said.

“But it was wrong of you to drop it on me.”

“But we didn’t drop it on you. We missed.”

“And it’s a good thing, too.”

“We really are sorry,” Robert said. “Will you go away now?”

“No,” Day said. “But you’re safe from me.”

“Safe?”

“I hurt my leg recently. I couldn’t climb that tree if I wanted to.”

“You can’t climb at all?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Well, we’re not coming down.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s still down there somewhere.”

“Is it all right, then, if I just sit here for a while and talk with you?”

There was a long silence. Day could hear faint murmuring from the platform as the boys discussed the situation.

“We don’t want to talk to you,” Simon said at last.

“But we can’t stop you from sitting there,” Robert said.

“This is what’s known as a stalemate,” Day said. “By the way, do you have any other rocks up there?”

“No. That was our only one.”

“Good.” Day reached for his flask by habit. He uncorked it and sniffed at its emptiness, but didn’t put it away. He sat with the flask in his lap, and gazed away into the wood at a cluster of small green saplings that were deprived of sunlight by the giant trees around them. They would never grow to full height until the previous generation of growth died away and gave them a chance. He wondered what would happen to the forest if all the tallest trees were felled, or simply disappeared overnight.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, Robert. I’m sitting here on your rock.”

“Are you really a policeman?”

“I am. I’m an inspector with Scotland Yard. My name is Day.”

“But you didn’t catch him yet,” Simon said. “You didn’t catch the birdie man.”

“You said he has a beak,” Day said. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I think he wears a special sort of mask. A plague mask. They have great long beaks attached on the fronts of them.”

“It’s scary. If it’s a mask, it’s scary, even if it isn’t his real face.”

“Yes. Plague masks are odd-looking,” Day said. “But it really is only a mask. And he’s only a man.”

“Why does he wear a plague mask? Is he sick?”

“Yes, he is, but not in the way that you mean,” Day said. “At least I don’t think he is. I believe he uses the mask to protect himself from a special kind of . . . well, a sort of gas that he uses to put people to sleep.”

“And then he hurts them.”

“Yes,” Day said. “I’m afraid he does. But I won’t let him hurt you.”

“Do you have any children?”

“I have two little girls. They’re only babies, not big like you. They could never have hauled this rock up there to where you are.”

“Of course not,” Simon said. “Not if they’re babies. Girls aren’t strong enough anyway.”

“Probably not,” Day said. “You must be very strong.”

“We are,” Simon said.

“Don’t talk to us like that,” Robert said. “You’re saying nice things so we’ll like you and come down from here.”

“You’re right,” Day said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. But I also think you must be strong lads. I honestly do. And I think you must be brave, as well, to run into the dark wood and keep each other safe for so long.”

“We don’t mind the wood. It’s quiet here and it’s ours.”

“You did the right thing, coming here.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

Day waited.

“Don’t you have to go catch the birdie man?”

“Soon,” Day said. “But right now there are hundreds of other policemen looking for the birdie man. Only we call him the Harvest Man and there are so many of us looking everywhere that he can’t possibly escape. We’ll get him.”

“You should go and help them look.”

“I will. But for the moment I’m here with you. I’m not going to go away from you until I know that you’re safe.”

“We’re safe.”

“No, Robert, you’re not safe. The Harvest Man can climb trees.”

There was a sudden flurry of movement from above and more whispering between the boys.

“He won’t know where to look,” Robert said. “There are lots of trees.”

“But you’ve dropped a great rock here and there’s evidence of activity under this tree. If I were the Harvest Man, I would climb this tree first and I would find you.”

Simon screamed.

“Stop it!” Robert’s voice sounded shaky again. “You’re scaring him! Stop saying things like that!”

“I’m sorry, Robert. Simon, don’t be frightened. The Harvest Man isn’t going to climb this tree right now because I’m sitting here under it.”

“He’ll kill you like he killed Mummy and Father.”

“No, he won’t,” Day said.

“He’ll catch you and cut you up. You can’t run fast. You have a stick to help you walk like our grandfather did.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a stick anymore. But I have a revolver. I’ll bet your grandfather didn’t have one of those.”

“Do you really have a revolver?”

“I do. And if he tries to hurt anybody, I’ll shoot him dead as you please.”

“You would shoot him?”

“If he comes near me, I will. Or if he comes near you, or anybody else I care about. I would just as soon shoot him as look at him, if truth be told.”

“Would you let me shoot him?”

“No, Robert.”

“Will you try to talk to him?”

“I don’t know. It depends, I suppose, on what he’s doing.”

“Promise you’ll shoot him the moment you see him. Promise you won’t let him get near you.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“You must. Promise.”

Day smiled. He realized he was still holding his flask. He corked it and put it away. He pushed himself to his feet and looked with regret at the bits of his smashed and broken cane protruding from under the rock.

“I’ll make you a bargain,” he said. “If the Harvest Man stands very still when I tell him to and if he doesn’t try to move until my friends and I tie his hands together, then I won’t shoot him. But if he does try to move or tries to come close to me or you or anybody else, then I will shoot him.”

“Have you ever shot anybody before?”

“Oh, yes,” Day said. He crossed his fingers behind his back in case the boys could see him. “I’ve shot many villains before. I’m very good with a pistol.”

“Stay there, please,” Robert said. “We’re coming down now.”

J
ohn Charles Pitt was lying in a hammock under a tree and the tree was spinning, sending the hammock around in great loops through the air. Around, and around, and around again. He smiled. Or he thought he might be smiling. Nothing seemed entirely real. His body was far away from him, but he felt secure. The force of movement didn’t lift him from his hammock, didn’t make him feel he might fall out and plummet to the ground. It was like an anchor weighing on him. An anchor in a tree? He could smell the vaguely antiseptic odor of the leaves as they fluttered down about him. He could feel the sun on his face, hot, burning him. He worried that he might be getting a sunburn on his cheeks. From far away, he could hear a troubadour singing some old popular song. Something he’d heard before, but couldn’t place. He listened to the tune, strained to hear the lyrics. And as he listened he felt himself beginning to wake up.

He hadn’t realized he was asleep.

•   •   •

T
HE
H
ARVEST
M
AN
SANG
as he worked:

I heard the rippling brooklet sing among the poplar trees

I heard the willows whispering unto the evening breeze

Unto the evening breeze

It always surprised the Harvest Man to hear his own voice, deeper and richer than it ought to be. So he rarely spoke to his parents while he worked on them. But when he sang, it gave him a thrill. At first he had sung nursery rhymes to them or hymns half remembered from his brief time as a choirboy. But those soon gave way to parlor songs, which were far more appropriate sounding when one considered how his voice had changed. He tried not to think about why it had changed or how it had changed. He concentrated on remembering the lyrics.

Again I looked on the old old place

Again I saw my darling’s face

How apropos. He squinted at the man on the bed, wishing he might see his darling father’s face, wishing his choice of song might be prophetic. Nothing so far. The man remained a stranger, his features unfamiliar. The Harvest Man made another cut, used his long curved blade to take off the tip of the man’s nose.

He could hear the woman moving in the next room, struggling with the ropes that bound her to her bed, but he ignored her. It wasn’t her turn yet.

Again we wandered by the stream

Again we wandered by the stream

He sliced off the man’s left eyebrow and repositioned it. His father had often worn a quizzical expression and the eyebrow looked better slightly slanted across his forehead, pointed at the bridge of his nose. It was slick with blood and slid slowly down his face. Annoyed, the Harvest Man plucked it off the man’s cheek and poked it back into place. This time it stayed put.

It was a dream

It was a dream

Again I looked on the old old place

Again I saw my darling’s face

But he didn’t see his darling father’s face. He steeled his resolve. If it were going to be easy to find his parents, he would have found them by now. He was being tested to see if he was worthy of their love, if he deserved to have them back. He nodded to himself and resumed singing, taking comfort from the melody. He made tiny cuts in the man’s lower lip, pulling the flesh apart as he went, tearing and repositioning, making the mouth wider, exposing the lower row of teeth. The man stirred and moved his head. Just a little bit, but enough to cause a cut to go too deep. Annoyed, the Harvest Man adjusted by making a corresponding slice on the other side of the man’s face. He sat back and examined his handiwork, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t only the new cuts he hadn’t meant to make. The bone structure was wrong.

Perhaps it was just the ears. Maybe they needed to be adjusted.

It was a dream

It was a dream

Again we wandered by the stream

It was a dream

It was a dream

The right ear complete, he moved around to the other side and cut the man’s left earlobe off. He sliced the ear half away from the scalp, pushed it up, molded it to the skull so that it looked smaller. He tossed the unused portion of ear over his shoulder, and heard it hit the floor. He sang louder.

I saw the wandering streamlet flow down to the cold grey sea

I saw the bending willows bow in welcome over me

In welcome over me

Again I listened to breeze and bird

Again my darling’s voice I heard

The man made a noise. He grunted and one of his eyelids fluttered. The Harvest Man smiled at him before remembering the mask hid his features from view. He lowered his voice to a murmur and bent his head as if he might kiss the man with his beak.

We kissed beneath the moon’s soft beam

We kissed beneath the moon’s soft beam

This was not his father. He knew that now. And if this wasn’t his father, then the woman in the next room could not be his mother. Once again, he had failed to find them.

It was a dream

It was a dream

He sucked a deep breath in through his teeth and tried not to be angry with the man and the woman who were not his parents. The strangers. He had gone with strangers again, something he had been told never to do. Still, perhaps the man hadn’t meant to lie to him, hadn’t intended the Harvest Man to mistake him for his father. He calmed himself with the ballad, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the lyrics.

Again I listened to breeze and bird

Again my darling’s voice I heard

But it wasn’t going to work. He felt the anger coming and he raised his voice, sang louder and louder, began to cut at the man’s face without rhyme or reason now, using the blade to punctuate the syllables of the song, destroying the work he had done, no longer caring what became of his canvas. Another night wasted, another dead end, and it was his fault,
his fault, the man’s fault, his father’s fault. The man had misled him and why would he do that when all the Harvest Man wanted was to love him didn’t he want to be loved and where was he hiding itwasadreamcomeoutcomeoutstophidingfrommeitwasadreambutirememberitanditwasrealandwekissedbeneaththemoonssoftbeamandyoulovedme.

•   •   •

J
OHN
C
HARLES
P
ITT
CAME
fully awake and his face was on fire. There was no sun, no tree, no hammock. There was a creature with a beak and two huge round eyes, but the man could barely see it through a haze of blood and pain. A candle flickered somewhere nearby, casting long dancing shadows of the bird creature as it bent over him. It was screaming at him, shouting the words of some drawing room ballad. John Charles opened his mouth to scream, but he felt his lips tear open and he tasted blood. He gasped and blinked the blood out of his eyes and saw the creature’s hand sweep down, felt fresh fire in his cheek, saw the hand raise up and slash down again and his throat erupted with pain and he couldn’t breathe. He was choking, coughing up warm liquid that he knew could only be blood.

And still the creature screamed its song at him.

The tree shimmered back into view and the sky opened up and he was drifting away on his hammock again, being carried away from the grotesque thing with the beak and its horrible cry. He briefly wondered about Eugenia Merrilow, wondered where she was and whether she had a hammock of her own. Then John Charles Pitt relaxed and let himself drift and the song faded away on the breeze.

It was a dream

It was a dream