wolves got her.”
“ Wolves? But there haven ’ t been wolves in these parts since —” Litch suddenly looked alarmed, uncomfortable.
“ Good day, Mr. Litch.” Tucker slammed the door and stepped deeper into the house, watching through the curtain as the mini s ter stood confused for a moment, and then left.
That night the first frost of autumn struck Tucker ’ s Grove. It crept up from the ground, snaring the fragile roots of plants. It emerged from the air, etching its signature on window-panes. A portent. The year was nearing its end. Things would die soon.
Hauled by one old horse, the wagon creaked as it passed down the dirt path to Tucker ’ s garden in the bright, cold mor n ing. Pastor Litch rode with the owner of the wagon, a burly farmer named Wilson. Clinton Tucker sat in silence, gr ipping the wooden edge of the wagon-bed. He didn ’ t like wagons much.
The edges of the plant leaves curled together from the shock of the frost. Tomato stems drooped, potato plants looked stunned.
Wilson drove the horse up to the pumpkin patch. The mound of giant leaves had fallen in upon itself, a tangle of crushed, w a tery vines. Wilson pulled the horse to a halt and left the beast to stand placidly, looking tired, or maybe just old. The three men climbed down from the wagon and went to pick the pumpkins.
“ Hey! Look here!” Wilson snapped the stem of the first pumpkin and held it up.
Splotches of bright red covered the shiny orange skin, like fresh, wet bloodstains.
Tucker ’ s mouth gaped. It couldn ’ t be! He had checked, cleaned, straightened everything. It had been three weeks.
Wilson brushed through the large leaves, and Litch searched with him. “ Funny! Every one of ’ em is stained like that! Never seen such a thing!” Wilson ran a thumbnail into the reddened skin of the pumpkin. “ It goes deep, too — ain ’ t just a stain.”
Litch broke a pumpkin off the vine and handed it to Tucker, who stood motionless beside the wagon. “ No matter. The chi l dren are going to carve them up anyway — they won ’ t care if the pumpkins got blight.”
Tucker took the pumpkin and set it in the wagon. He felt numb. This wasn ’ t real. It couldn ’ t be. He tried to rub the red off with his own hands; but the stain held its own, mocking him. All the pumpkins. The other two men began to pick, and Tucker loaded t he wagon-bed.
“ I wonder what could have done that, though,” Litch said.
Wilson grunted as he twisted a thick stem. “ First frost of a u tumn sometimes does funny things to plants.”
Tucker grasped at the explanation. “ Yeah,” he managed to say, “ that must be it .”
Tucker sat on the porch before dusk, cradling his shotgun on his lap as the sun died on the horizon. Birds sometimes came out to sing at sunset, but not today.
He watched the moon rise. Within another few days the obese Hunter ’ s Moon would make its ann ual appearance.
She was still in the loft, smothered in the dry straw with the bugs and the field mice and the spiders. It had been nearly a month.
Something made him stare at the rickety, gap-toothed barn — a calling came from inside, wordless, lost, some k ind of perverted siren song that drew his attention. Was it her voice? He had ne v er heard her voice, he suddenly realized, not while she was alive… except for that final, sharp scream.
Tucker ’ s breathing came in quicker, shallower gasps. She had made the pu mpkins look bloodstained. Now she was calling to him.
With all the people due to be going in and out of his barn to set up for the Hallowe ’ en dance, he needed to move her soon, soon . But he couldn ’ t bring himself to. He wouldn ’ t go to her while she whisper ed to him in the twilight wind. He couldn ’ t!
Tucker raised the shotgun and fired a round of birdshot at the side of the barn.
The voice stopped.
***
The Hunter ’ s Moon rode high among the stars, lord of the night sky. A cold wind whistled a dirge
“ Wolves? But there haven ’ t been wolves in these parts since —” Litch suddenly looked alarmed, uncomfortable.
“ Good day, Mr. Litch.” Tucker slammed the door and stepped deeper into the house, watching through the curtain as the mini s ter stood confused for a moment, and then left.
That night the first frost of autumn struck Tucker ’ s Grove. It crept up from the ground, snaring the fragile roots of plants. It emerged from the air, etching its signature on window-panes. A portent. The year was nearing its end. Things would die soon.
Hauled by one old horse, the wagon creaked as it passed down the dirt path to Tucker ’ s garden in the bright, cold mor n ing. Pastor Litch rode with the owner of the wagon, a burly farmer named Wilson. Clinton Tucker sat in silence, gr ipping the wooden edge of the wagon-bed. He didn ’ t like wagons much.
The edges of the plant leaves curled together from the shock of the frost. Tomato stems drooped, potato plants looked stunned.
Wilson drove the horse up to the pumpkin patch. The mound of giant leaves had fallen in upon itself, a tangle of crushed, w a tery vines. Wilson pulled the horse to a halt and left the beast to stand placidly, looking tired, or maybe just old. The three men climbed down from the wagon and went to pick the pumpkins.
“ Hey! Look here!” Wilson snapped the stem of the first pumpkin and held it up.
Splotches of bright red covered the shiny orange skin, like fresh, wet bloodstains.
Tucker ’ s mouth gaped. It couldn ’ t be! He had checked, cleaned, straightened everything. It had been three weeks.
Wilson brushed through the large leaves, and Litch searched with him. “ Funny! Every one of ’ em is stained like that! Never seen such a thing!” Wilson ran a thumbnail into the reddened skin of the pumpkin. “ It goes deep, too — ain ’ t just a stain.”
Litch broke a pumpkin off the vine and handed it to Tucker, who stood motionless beside the wagon. “ No matter. The chi l dren are going to carve them up anyway — they won ’ t care if the pumpkins got blight.”
Tucker took the pumpkin and set it in the wagon. He felt numb. This wasn ’ t real. It couldn ’ t be. He tried to rub the red off with his own hands; but the stain held its own, mocking him. All the pumpkins. The other two men began to pick, and Tucker loaded t he wagon-bed.
“ I wonder what could have done that, though,” Litch said.
Wilson grunted as he twisted a thick stem. “ First frost of a u tumn sometimes does funny things to plants.”
Tucker grasped at the explanation. “ Yeah,” he managed to say, “ that must be it .”
Tucker sat on the porch before dusk, cradling his shotgun on his lap as the sun died on the horizon. Birds sometimes came out to sing at sunset, but not today.
He watched the moon rise. Within another few days the obese Hunter ’ s Moon would make its ann ual appearance.
She was still in the loft, smothered in the dry straw with the bugs and the field mice and the spiders. It had been nearly a month.
Something made him stare at the rickety, gap-toothed barn — a calling came from inside, wordless, lost, some k ind of perverted siren song that drew his attention. Was it her voice? He had ne v er heard her voice, he suddenly realized, not while she was alive… except for that final, sharp scream.
Tucker ’ s breathing came in quicker, shallower gasps. She had made the pu mpkins look bloodstained. Now she was calling to him.
With all the people due to be going in and out of his barn to set up for the Hallowe ’ en dance, he needed to move her soon, soon . But he couldn ’ t bring himself to. He wouldn ’ t go to her while she whisper ed to him in the twilight wind. He couldn ’ t!
Tucker raised the shotgun and fired a round of birdshot at the side of the barn.
The voice stopped.
***
The Hunter ’ s Moon rode high among the stars, lord of the night sky. A cold wind whistled a dirge
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