The voices of the women punctuated each sentence with responses of approval, which sounded to me like the “Amen”s of a church service.
“As it was in the olden times, so it has been and ever shall be. It is the way. The spirit has been in our Lord for these seven years, and he has brought us good harvests. It was the flesh of his body, his strength and sinew, his limbs and brain, his blood that did this for us. The corn is his, each kernel, and for it we thank him.”
“We thank him,” they chorused.
“This is something to have done in a life. It is something to have been made for. To have been set upon the earth to cause the earth to bear.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”
“Then let him be gloried!”
“Gloried. Gloried.” I heard the feverish response, saw the bright glistening eyes of the women as they lavished adoring looks upon him, some in their dazed state unable to withhold sudden emotional outbursts, pushing their way toward him and prostrating themselves before him.
The old woman’s body had begun moving slightly; I could see her shoulders lifting and lowering as though to engender more deeply the force of the drug in her system. Her torso made small circular motions while her hand lay upon Justin’s head.
“Hear me, for I speak with the tongue of the Goddess who dwells in the earth. I remind you again of Her promise. She will provide for us, She will give us the—” Here she broke off, as though to remind herself what would be provided. Having recollected, she went on in a thick, harsh voice: “The bountiful harvest, if—if we Her servants tend well to Her business. If we will believe.”
“Believe.” The word was repeated through the throng which forced its way nearer, the closest throwing themselves to the ground, reaching to touch the hem of Justin’s cloak. “Let no man gainsay us. Let no outsider comprehend Her. In a time when faces have been turned on the other God, let us acknowledge the Mother of us all. She will sustain us.”
“Yes. Yesss.”
“As She has sustained this, Her son.”
Cries arose, a piteous lament, and some had come behind the throne, leaning forward to touch Justin’s head and caress his neck and shoulders.
“From his hand has come the gift, and in return we have shown him our secret. The soil has quickened and proved fertile and the rains have been plenteous and the sun of the world has shone on us.”
“Has shone. Has shone.”
“The corn grew. We have prospered.”
“Prospered.”
“And—” She faltered again, making a tight movement with her lips to master herself, as if the next moment were of the greatest import.
“And in the gratitude of our hearts we now offer him the pledge and token of our esteem, as is customary upon the seventh year of Harvest Home, that he may know of us the secret heart of that which he himself has given us. He alone of all men may know the secret which has been given to us, the secret of the Sacred Mother.”
For an instant, I reeled back in time to Tithing Day, when Worthy had appeared in the church doorway and had damned the Mother. The answer was at hand. The secret was to be revealed, and with it the heart of the mystery I had so long probed. The secret heart of Mother Earth. The Widow’s last words filled my head: “He alone of all men may know…” I realized my peril: if I was discovered, they would kill me.
The women had formed a melting, slow-moving configuration across the clearing and, before I realized it was happening, from the midst of the throng was produced the core of the night’s mysteries, which no man but the Harvest Lord was permitted to look upon. Covered with a woven cloth, resting upon a silver salver, the mysterious and awaited object was given into the Widow’s hands, who now turned and held it before Justin. From her seclusion, the Corn Maiden arose with her court, she, too, to gaze upon what lay hidden under the cloth. It was not large—this I could easily see—and I felt a tremor, wondering at this rare and precious treasure, this strange, forbidden object none but the initiated might look upon.
Yet when the Widow lifted the cloth and revealed it, I saw it was the commonest of things, something I had seen constantly since coming to the village of Cornwall Coombe. Was it for this these ceremonies took place? Was this the heart of the mysteries of the great Mother, which had been handed down from generation to generation, century after century? Was this what Worthy had feared, what Grace had refused to acknowledge, what Sophie had ended her life in dread of? What no man may know nor woman tell?
An ear of corn. A single, simple ear of corn. It lay upon the salver in its husk, the salver held before Justin’s eyes as he gazed on it. What, I wondered, did the fact of it reveal to him? What had it been given him on this night of Harvest Home to read in a single ear of corn? Then I saw, as he must have, that what had been given to him was the exact and precise nature of the world he lived in, where the fact of the corn was the fact of his life. Like most simple facts, it was the truest, and the most easily overlooked. On the tray, hidden in the husk, was the whole vision, the life of the corn and the life of the man, inextricably bound together in oneness, bound in the tilling and the planting and the growing, in the harvesting and in—
I knew it then. I knew it! And was terribly afraid. The corn was the revelation; the revelation was in the corn: the ear in its husk held before the Harvest Lord by the hands of the Widow Fortune. Its deepest significance had been obscured by the tangle of mysteries, yet in a single chilling moment all the mysteries now became clear. I felt a shiver, like a strange paralysis, creeping up my body. I swallowed and, in the silence, thought someone surely must hear. But I did not fear for myself; I feared for Justin. I knew then the terrible secret of Harvest Home.
They were going to kill him.
Here, in the grove, in this temple of the Mother Earth, the Harvest Lord was to be offered in ritual sacrifice. Here, in the moonlight, with the dancing and singing women, Justin Hooke was being drugged, was then to be murdered, murdered for the corn.
This was why they had revealed to him their mystery, because he would never live to tell what he had seen. Bound together in oneness, the Harvest Lord and the corn, and as the corn died and was reborn, so would he die and be born again, not in himself but in the young Lord. The Eternal Return.
I felt shock, disgust, rage, felt again the hatred I had felt at the burning—hatred for their stupid, primitive beliefs. I wanted to shout out to Justin: Do not drink, run away; never hear, never listen.
I looked at him. He did not seem afraid. In his drugged state, he showed no loss of dignity; he sat regal and aloof, watching as the corn ear was covered again and taken from sight, as if he comprehended what he had been shown, and what he must now do.
The Widow was speaking again: “And as our Lord has accepted honor and tribute at our hand so he must likewise find his passing at our hand.”
The Harvest Lord made immortal. The pride of Justin Hooke.
The old woman continued, recalling for them the last Great Waste, when Loren McCutcheon had been Harvest Lord—Justin nodding agreement—and the cause of this visitation had come at the hands of Gracie Everdeen, blighted in soul and body, she whose Lord had been Roger Penrose, and who had defied the traditions of Harvest Home, had brought to the reign of Loren McCutcheon waste and dearth.
Perfidious Grace Everdeen.
Dead, all of them. Loren McCutcheon, but not from drink. Roger Penrose, but not from a horse fall. Clemmon Fortune, but not from an axe blow.
Murdered for the corn.
The Widow Fortune.
Widowhood in exchange for good crops. And everyone, all the villagers, had known it, man, woman, child alike. And he, the victim, had also known. And I, the fool everyone said I was, had not known.
I saw it now. Loren McCutcheon had been the Harvest Lord and had reigned for seven years; on the seventh year Justin had been chosen the Young Lord at the Agnes Fair. At Harvest Home, Loren had been dispatched by some unknown means and Justin had taken his place. For seven years there had been no Great W
aste, the crops were bountiful; and now, tonight, the seven years were done. Worthy Pettinger had been chosen the Young Lord, with Missy Penrose’s bloody hands on his cheeks, signifying he would reign for the next seven years. But Worthy had not wanted to die. He had run away, been brought back, and killed. Insult to the Mother.
And Justin would die, in the prime of his manhood, to give place to the new Harvest Lord, Jim Minerva, who in another seven years would also die.
The King is dead, long live the King.
Now the women would not stifle their ready tears, and they began an orgy of cries, voices calling out in farewell. I strained to hear the Widow. She had become somewhat incoherent, and I caught only fragments.
“Land has offered up its gifts—bounty—his hand given freely—be grateful—in gratitude mourn him—” The hoarse, uneven voice rose and fell in a fanatical paean of praise and sorrow. “Land will sleep—so must he—lay him to rest—recall with love—the farmer Justin Hooke.”
Generously the moon lent its light to the scene, which little by little became more agitated. Never while the Widow spoke had the cup ceased being passed among the celebrants; never had Justin not been offered it. His eyes glittered, his tongue betrayed the dryness of his mouth, while his glazed features seemed illuminated by some dread inner light as he listened to the doleful lamentation, prefacing what was to follow.
They would poison him, undoubtedly. Some baneful mixture the Widow had prepared would be administered, put into his cup, and given to him to drink. But this was not yet, this was later, for now there was something to come before.
I should have realized what it was to be, yet until it actually began, I did not. Had I known, nothing could have kept me where I had hidden myself.
But even this part was for a time delayed, while the dancing began anew—another kind of dance, a brutal, fierce expression of emotion. Justin was brought to a standing position, and the red mantle taken from his shoulders, to be folded by numerous hands and passed from sight. Now he stood before them in god-like glory, his body covered only by a short tunic extending from neck to thigh and made of strips of corn leaves, and I could see his glistening flesh through the spaces between the strips. Again he took the proffered cup into his hands, fingers spread around the curve of metal; I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as the liquid slid down his throat. He returned the cup, staggering slightly, pulled himself erect, and stood, spread-legged, waiting.
Everyone was waiting. And then I saw what was to come. There was one figure in the ceremony I had momentarily forgotten: the Corn Maiden. Until now she had sat by, accepting the cup as it was handed her, bending forward in rapt attention as the Widow spoke. Now her outer robe was taken from her and she was brought forward, moving across the trampled grass with a slow, undulating walk, an aggressive sexuality revealed in her movement, the embroidered veil hanging to her waist, the rest of her body covered to the thighs in the same sort of corn-leaf tunic that Justin wore. While she gazed at him through her veil, the women took hoes and dug at the turf, turning the soft ground. Little by little, the green of the grass disappeared and the sod was dug up, revealing the dark earth beneath. As they worked they sang, their faces flushed from the drink, their gestures feverish, as though anxious to accomplish their labor.
Among them walked the Widow, putting her hand to their hoes, each in turn, encouraging their endeavors, her white cap catching the light as she lifted her head and offered reverence to the Mother; and as she spoke, each word was taken up in turn by the women, so the singing became a liturgical incantation, picked up one by one, the next repeating it, and the next, and so it spread all across the tilled clearing, the Widow making gestures of transference from her mouth to theirs, offering them the words, they antiphonally returning them.
“We offer Thee, O Mother, Thy husband, as Thou hast given him to us, so we return him to Thee, into Thy keeping.”
“Thy keeping…”
“As Thou has provided him strength, take him in strength.”
“In strength…”
“For tonight he shall be gloried. They shall stand by his tomb and remember him. He shall not have been Justin Hooke, the corn farmer, but the Harvest Lord. He shall be immortal.”
“Immortal.”
“Take him to Your breast, great holiest of Mothers, this Your son, and succor him, receive him, forgive him. Blessed is he…”
“Blessed is he…”
“Body of Your body…”
“Body of Your body…”
“Soul of Your soul…”
“Soul of Your soul…”
“Soul of the corn that grows, the receptacle, harborer of the seed…”
“Harborer of the seed…”
“Receive him…”
“Receive him…”
“O Mother…”
“O Mother…”
“O Mother…”
“O Mother…”
“O Mother-r-r…Ma Mère…Mia Ma-a-adre…Maw-tharr…Mo-der…Ma-ter-r-r-r…Me-e-ee-eter-r-r…”
“Me-e-ee-eter-r-r…”
“De—meter-r-r-r…”
“Demeter…”
Thus continued the chant, a canticle in a gradual declension of words that saw its passage from the tongue of every day through tongues that had been spoken for century upon century and that at last became another tongue entirely:
“O Mag—thyr…Da—mag—thyr…Da—myyg—ar…Ah, ldhu, Mag-thyr…”
A tongue spoken before any of those preceding, and the women, hand-locked in circle within the grove, had the tongue, for the old woman gave it to them, but though they did not know the meaning of the words they comprehended their import, for this was part of the mystery they shared in; and as they chanted, the flutes fell silent and only the drums and tambourines continued, their repeated monotony bringing the celebrants closer and closer to the magic that lay behind this night of nights.
“Mag—thyr…Da—mag—thyr…”
A steady tempo measuring out the cadence and rhythm. And the tongue became tongueless, became sounds only, iterated again and again as the old woman turned the circle, her fisted hand giving the meter to the drums and tambourines, giving the women the chant, and the words she knew, the syllables, the sounds of the tongue that was no tongue at all:
“Ah, ldhu…ldhu…yah…halg…ogrl…na…”
Neither English nor German nor Latin nor Celtic nor Sumerian nor any other language, for it was the tongue men had spoken at the dawn of time, when they first learned to communicate.
And at length, as the old woman circled, giving to them the sounds, some of the women’s heads began to sway and their bodies followed where their heads led them and their joined hands parted while, their throats giving utterance to the sounds, they fell to the ground and tore up the grass and dug at the earth like animals, swine rooting, groveling, rolling upon one another, writhing in hysteria, with heaving breast and flailing limb, and the old woman stood above them, driving them, her fist metronomic against the moon, rising, lowering, giving them the tempo and the words. Nothing could stay them now, nothing still them. Wildly they flung themselves where they might, heedless of injury, unaware of reality, swept into hypnotic oblivion, their stomachs expanding, contracting, drinking air that they should rise and chant again, and again fall in frenzy.
And there were some who fell at the feet of the watching Harvest Lord, who had laid his cup aside and sat unmoving and upright, observing the secret rites as they swooned before him, permitting them to extend their quivering hands to touch him: piteous, tender hands, despairing hands; surely they must touch their last. Beloved Lord, O lively, warm male flesh, O magnificent Lord, we thank thee, the Mother thanks thee—
“O Mother…Magthyr…ldhu, ah, ldhu…”
Louder grew the cry, louder the chant, more serpentine their writhings as they yearned toward him, rushing from him to tear their hair, heads flung back, open-mouthed to shout unintelligible obscenities at the heaven that was to deprive them of t
heir beloved.
Now it would be his death, the end of Justin Hooke. But no; still it was not yet. There was more for the living Justin, one thing more for him to do. They swooped upon him and brought him from where he stood beside the Corn Maiden to a spot near the center of the clearing where the earth had been hoed, and from my hiding place I could see the blank glitter of his eyes, the half-lidded look of pleasure as they strewed themselves about his feet, rubbing their cheeks along his legs, upward to his thighs, their eager hands reaching under his tunic to fondle and caress him. His head dropped back and a deep-throated moan of pleasure issued from his mouth as he became aroused, and through the parted strips of corn leaves appeared the living malehood of the Harvest Lord.
“Ya—ldhu!” they screamed, rushing to touch it, feel the erect object of their adoration, the great rooster that had occasioned the ribald comments at their kitchen doors. “Ya—ldhu! Ahm—lot! AHM—lot!” Cries of torment, their frenzy now insupportable. The sight and touch of the Priapean object induced a wild pantomime of devotion, an obscene reverence to the maleness of the Harvest Lord.
They were working at his back, binding his hands behind with braided thongs, rendering them useless. Then the Corn Maiden was brought to him and I realized what must follow. Together, in front of the others, they were to make the corn!
The veiled figure stood before him, leaf strips from neck to thigh, white legs gleaming, and arms, as she brought them up in a worshipful gesture, violently trembling.
Hands reached to draw away the veil, and as it fluttered, then slid away entirely, I stared, only half hearing the twig crack behind the tree as the waiting presence took a step forward. I paid scant attention to my danger as in that single terrible moment I realized the mistake I had made, and to what extent I had underrated the Widow Fortune’s powers of persuasion. If Tamar Penrose had been a candidate, and Sally and Margie, they had all lost. The Widow had wanted new blood for the Corn Maiden; she had got it.