The Harvest Man (13 page)

R
obert stood beside him and steadied him with a hand on his back while Day reached up and plucked little Simon off the trunk of the tree. He gave the boy an awkward hug and set him on the ground. Robert brushed the leaves and bark from his brother’s shirt, then took Simon’s hand. The two of them looked up at Day with fear and hope in their eyes. He tried to smile, but was afraid he might be grimacing at them. His leg hurt more than it had that morning and he wondered if it would ever improve.

“Let’s sit for a moment,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

“We don’t mind,” Robert said.

Day went back to the rock they’d tried to drop on his head and lowered himself onto it. Simon let go of Robert’s hand and came and perched on the side of the rock, almost touching Day. Robert stood nearby, watching his brother, watching Day.

“Is that your walking stick?”

“Yes, Robert,” Day said. “It used to be my walking stick.”

“We broke it with our rock?”

Day looked down at the shattered pieces of his cane. The bulk of it was probably beneath the rock he was sitting on, but the tip and handle were far away from each other, surrounded by splintered bits of wood.

“Yes,” he said. “You did an excellent job of it. If that had been the bad man’s head, you would have stopped him for good, I think.”

“We’re sorry.”

“Think nothing of it. A cane is easily replaced. You two are not.”

“When will you take us home?”

Day sucked on his top teeth and looked away into the trees. “I don’t think I can take you home, Robert.”

“You’re going to take us to the orphanage, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I want to be honest with you. I don’t know what will happen now. Your parents . . . Well, your parents are gone.”

“We know. We saw.”

“You’ll have new parents.”

“We don’t want new parents, sir. All due respect.”

“Of course.” Day sighed. “Of course you don’t. This isn’t a situation anyone would want. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have seen what you saw.”

“Will you take us home with you?”

Day rocked back and looked at Robert, his eyes wide. He turned his head and saw little Simon was staring down at his shoes. A single bright teardrop reflecting a spot of moonlight fell from his face to the top of his shoe, where it disappeared.

“I don’t think that’s the way this sort of thing works, Robert. I don’t know that it’s a possibility. Even if I had room at my house for you, I don’t know that . . .”

“It’s all right,” Robert said. He spoke quickly, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said—”

“No, no, it’s not that I wouldn’t, you know.”

“Just take us somewhere. Just let’s get out of the wood.”

“You know, it’s awfully late now. I believe I will take you home with me after all.” Day leaned forward, but didn’t stand. “I’m told there’s more room there than I thought. Robert, you said you caught a glimpse of the Harvest . . . of the birdie man. You saw his real face beneath the mask.”

“Only for a moment, sir.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“I don’t think so. He looked sort of like a wee man, but different ’cause he wasn’t, you know.”

“Oh, Robert, he is a man,” Day said. “It was a man who did those awful things. And we’ll catch him, I swear it. But I could use your help.”

“I don’t know how to describe him.”

Day thought for a minute. The boys were still and silent, waiting to discover what their lives had in store for them. At last, Day smiled. He looked around and spotted a stout branch, knocked loose from the canopy above. He pointed at it and Robert ran, picked it up, and brought it over to the rock. Day took it and poked it at the ground to test its strength. He stripped the remaining leaves and twigs from it and put his weight on it and stood. The top was rough and hurt the palm of his hand, but he thought he could probably saw it off and file it down and it would do just fine.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Can you draw?”

“I’m not very good at drawing, sir. And Simon’s not, either.”

“I am,” Simon said. “I’m quite good at it.”

“You’re not either, Simon. Not the way Mr Day means, at least.”

“I can draw anything.”

“You can draw dragons and you can draw wee people in tunnels. You can’t draw what a person looks like just to show someone else. That’s what Mr Day means, isn’t it, sir?”

Day nodded.

“Oh, well, that,” Simon said. “No, I can’t do that so well.”

“Then what if you described the birdie man to someone else and they drew him for you?”

“Who?”

“I know someone who draws very well indeed. And if you tell her what the birdie man looked like, I think she might be able to create a picture of him for us. And then we’ll be better able to catch him.”

“We could try.”

“Good man.” Day clapped his hand on Robert’s shoulder and the boy flinched, but didn’t pull away. Day nodded at him. He turned and smiled at the little boy still sitting on the rock and Simon rose and took his hand.

“You’ll like this artist,” Day said. “Her name is Fiona and she’s very nice. We’ll go see her first thing. You just tell her what you saw and she’ll figure it out for you.”

“We’ll try our best, Mr Day.”

“I know you will,” Day said. “You’re good boys.”

Robert walked a little ahead of them and Day could see the boy’s shoulders shake as he silently cried. Day bowed his head and kept a tight hold of Simon’s hand and let Robert lead them out of the forest.

M
cKraken gave Day a sheepish smile at the front door, clearly embarrassed that he had been caught napping on the job. The retired inspector leaned down and asked the boys their names, asked Day how long they’d be there in the house.

“I’m not really sure,” Day said. “The night, at least.”

“Well, you’ll be safe here,” McKraken said.

Simon shook his head. “No. The birdie man can go anywhere he wants to.”

“Not as long as I’m guarding this door, he won’t.”

“You stay here all the time?”

“Most of the time. I have to go to my own home sometimes to sleep and change my clothes.”

“That’s when he’ll come, then.”

“I only do that during the daylight hours when there are plenty of people about. Baddies tend to avoid places where there’s lots of people. When it’s quiet and lonely in a place, that’s when the bugs come out.”

“Bugs?”

“That’s what I call ’em. Bad people, they’re nothing but little bugs trying to crawl out of the woodwork, but I squash ’em.”

Simon continued to look worried, but he nodded. Thinking of the Harvest Man as a bug seemed to put the murderer in a new perspective that he liked. McKraken straightened up, one hand on the small of his back to ease the strain. He patted the boys on their heads and held the blue door open. He closed it after them the instant they’d crossed the threshold.

Inside, the house was quiet and dim. Leland Carlyle had apparently gone to bed or had returned to his own place across the park. Both boys craned their necks and looked all round the entryway. Simon yawned, then scooted ahead of them to peer into the front room.

“I would like to look in the attic, please,” Robert said.

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we have no attic here,” Day said.

Robert’s eyes widened and he ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. “No attic at all? Not even a little space?”

“There is nothing at the top of this house except a roof.”

“I’m hungry,” Simon said.

“Oh, well, of course you are,” Day said. “I’m sorry. Come with me. Let’s see what we can scrounge back in the kitchen.”

He was struck by how peaceful the house could still seem when there weren’t so many people underfoot. It made him think of the early days of his marriage, when he and Claire had been alone together.

Someone had left a cold pork pie under a cloth on the butcher block. Day set the boys down and found two plates, two forks, and two squat cut-crystal glasses in the cabinet. The rough stick he had acquired from the forest thumped against the kitchen floor and echoed back from the walls. He poured water for the boys from the pitcher on the kitchen table and sliced the pie into four segments, gave them each a quarter of it. The meat was encased in a thick layer of gelatinous fat under the pastry shell, salty and delicious. He ate his quarter of the pie directly from the tin and it was gone in seconds. He looked up, surprised to see that Robert had finished his piece as well. He lifted the last quarter of the pie out onto Robert’s plate and watched the boys eat. Simon chewed every mouthful methodically, but Robert practically swallowed his food whole.

“Cook said that pie was meant for the morning.”

Day looked up at Claire, who stood in the kitchen doorway wearing a housedress, her hair up and her feet bare. He smiled at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been some time since our guests enjoyed a meal.”

“Then I think you’ll have to settle for eggs at breakfast,” Claire said.

“I like eggs.”

“I like eggs, too,” Simon said. “May I please have one now?”

“My, you must be hungry,” Claire said. She went to the pantry and emerged with a discolored iron skillet and a bowl of brown eggs. “How do you like them cooked? I warn you, I can only make scrambled.”

“I like scrambled,” Robert said.

“You’re in luck. Except we’ve no milk for them, so they’ll be sort of mixed rather than strictly scrambled. I hope you won’t mind.” She cracked an egg and fished a piece of shell out of the skillet.

“I like poached,” Simon said.

“Then you, I’m afraid, are bound for disappointment, young man.” She frowned at the remaining eggs, then shrugged and began cracking them all, piling the pieces of brown shell beside the stove.

“This is Simon,” Day said. “And this is his brother, Robert.”

“Hello, Simon,” Claire said. “Hello, Robert.”

“They’re going to stay the night with us.”

“How lovely.” Claire rummaged about in a drawer and found a wooden spoon.

“How are Winnie and . . .”

“Henrietta?”

“Yes,” Day said. “Henrietta. How are they?”

“They’re sound asleep without a worry in the world.”

“That’s good.”

“Should I ask where your cane’s got to?”

“A story for another time perhaps?”

“Just so. Walter, would you step outside and ask Mr McKraken if he would also like an egg, since we seem to be having an early breakfast?”

“Be but a moment.”

McKraken claimed to be no fan of eggs, and Day stopped in the study to refill his flask. When he returned to the kitchen, Claire was sitting at the table with the boys, a plate in front of her. Robert had finished his second piece of pork pie and he and Simon were both tucking into huge portions of eggs and cold sausages and bread. Robert in particular seemed to be a bottomless hole. Claire was talking and Day stood listening.

“. . . because it reminds me of something bad that happened.”

“I hope nothing too terribly bad,” Simon said.

“Our entire house will be like that,” Robert said. “The whole entire place will remind us of what’s happened.”

“I suppose that’s why Mr Day didn’t take us there.”

“I suppose it is,” Claire said. “But now that I’m in here with you, this kitchen doesn’t seem so bad after all. After tonight, maybe I’ll think about how I made eggs for you instead of the bad things that happened here.”

“What were the bad things?”

“You know, you’ve managed to pop it all straight out of my head. I don’t even remember anymore.” Claire looked up and saw Day standing at the threshold and smiled at him. He smiled back. He went to the stove and checked the pan, but the eggs had all been eaten. He shrugged and joined the others at the table.

“If you like, I can find something else for you,” Claire said. “If you’re still hungry.”

“No, not really. Mostly tired, I think.”

“Cook’s going to be terribly angry with us. We’ve eaten everything.”

Simon yawned again and this time it was contagious. Each of the others yawned in turn and Day stood back up, stretched, and picked up his stick.

“I think that’s enough eggs,” he said. “Let’s find a place for you two to sleep tonight.”

“I’ll make up the daybed,” Claire said. She rose and took her plate to the counter. “They should both fit if they don’t mind sharing.”

“We need a bigger house, don’t we?”

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Day cocked his head to the side and gave her his most disarming smile in lieu of an apology. She put her hand on his arm. “Someday soon, but there’s no hurry,” she said. “We’ll do just fine here for a little longer.”

“We share all the time,” Simon said.

“Then it’s settled,” Claire said. “Come with me and we’ll get you settled in here.” The boys stood and followed her out of the kitchen. As she passed Day, Claire winked at him and he knew he was forgiven.

The rain is falling all around,

It falls on field and tree,

It rains on the umbrellas here,

And on the ships at sea.

—R
OBERT
L
OUIS
S
TEVENSON
, “R
AIN
,”
A Child’s Garden of Verses
(
1885
)