Ceremonies

Book Two: Poroth Farm

'Surely,' I said, 'there is little left to explore. You have been born a few hundred years too late for that.'

'I think you are wrong,' he replied; 'there are still, depend upon it, quaint, undiscovered countries and continents of strange extent.'

Arthur Machen, The Novel of the Black Seal

June Twenty-sixth

Dear Carol,

Greetings from the sticks! I’ve been here all of four and a half hours and already my voice has taken on a colorful rustic twang. By this time tomorrow I expect to be walking around with a straw hat over my eyes and a wheat stalk dangling from my lips. Amazing what this country air can do.

Actually, the air here is quite nice, and it makes me wonder what in God's name I've been breathing for the last twenty-nine years. (I just hope it doesn't give me one of those legendary country appetites.) Outside in the yard you can really smell things growing. Which, for this guy, is something of a novelty.

Everything out here is ridiculously green, and so silent I'm tempted just to sit still and listen to it. No traffic noise, no subways or construction gangs or psychos. And no more jangling telephones, thank God! Believe me, it's every bit as quiet as the library. You'll feel right at home.

I came out today on the afternoon bus, lugging two monstrous suitcases stuffed with books, papers, and a few changes of clothes. Sarr met me in Gilead with his truck. He's just like I described him. He comes on a bit solemn at first – gloomy, even – but underneath it all I believe he's just shy. You'll like him.

You'll probably like Deborah even more. She's already filled me in on all the local gossip. (Gilead, it seems, is not composed entirely of saints; though I noticed she didn't bring this up till her husband was gone.) She also insisted on telling me the complete, unedited life histories of each of their seven cats. I'll spare you the details; you'll probably get an encore when you come out. She's fascinated by New York City, incidentally, which I gather she hasn't visited since meeting Sarr.

So here I am, ensconced in my rural retreat, sitting at an old wooden table which I've set up as a desk. There's a small bookcase right beside it which Deborah found in the storeroom, and another one next to my bed. My books are all unpacked now, and I've spent the last couple of hours getting things tidied up a bit, patching a few holes in the screens, etc. The windows let in lots of sun, and the place is much more cheerful than I probably made it sound. You'll see when you get here (which, needless to say, I hope you'll do next weekend). I certainly don't anticipate any problems.

Well, I suppose I ought to get busy with some work of my own. I hope to devote myself to the Three R's while I'm out here – reading and 'riting, with 'rithmetic to help me figure out how to crowd a year's worth of the first two into a single summer. (To keep track of my progress I intend to start a journal, but somehow doubt it'll rival Thoreau's.) Earlier today I found some old lawn chairs in the storeroom on the other side of this outbuilding, so I guess I'll take one of them outside and read till dinnertime. There's only an hour or so of daylight left, and I may as well take advantage of it.

See you soon, I trust. Write and let me know.

XXX

Jeremy

P.S. I'm enclosing a Flemington bus schedule. You have to tell the driver in advance that you want Gilead, otherwise they bypass the place. You could come out Friday after work and be here before dark.

Horace Walpole, The Castle of Otranto (1764). Chapter one. 'Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth… '

No one can accuse Walpole of beating around the bush.

Essay topics: Show how the techniques of stagecraft are used to enhance suspense. Gothic fantasy as literature of setting, mystery as literature of plot, science fiction as literature of ideas.

Why the Gothic is inherently conservative. Sexual nature of grief.

Sexual nature of fear.

After dinner, chapters two through five.' "I would say something more," said Matilda, struggling, "but it would not be – Isabella -Theodore – for my sake – oh!" She expired. Isabella and her woman tore Hippolita from the corpse; but Theodore printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands… '

Somehow this stuff doesn't really grab me. Castles, monks, giant helmets… Maybe I shouldn't have started so far back.

Or maybe it's just the glare from this goddamned desk lamp. Must get a proper shade for it next time I'm in town, otherwise I'll go blind. Would walk back inside amp; ask the Poroths for one, but don't think they'd be much help, since – bless their masochistic hearts -the two of them seem determined to make do with gas lamps amp; kerosene lanterns. (Something I deliberately neglected to mention in letter to Carol.)

Anyway, thank God for Thomas Edison.

Nighttime now. The Poroths already have their lights off, amp; a million moths are tapping at my screens. One of them's a fat white fellow the size of a small bird. Never saw one like it. What kind of caterpillar must it have been?

Jesus, I hope the damned things don't push through the wire.

Wonder if the dampness brings them out. There's a line of hills not far away, but here the elevation's low amp; the night air smells of water. Already I've noticed a greenish band of mildew around the bottom of my walls.

Bugs, too. Lots of them. This place is really infested. (Something else I neglected to tell Carol. Ditto dampness, musty smell, wasps near smokehouse, etc. etc. Why turn her off the place before she comes?) Seems to me the Poroths might have taken a bit more time to clean it, instead of waiting till I got here; I had to go over the entire room twice after Deborah'd left, amp; each time I found new ones. God knows what they were. Sure as hell don't care to look them up in the guide.

Worst of all are the spiders, esp. near the screens. Think I got most of them by now, but had to use up half a roll of paper towels squashing the bastards. Must buy more the next time I'm in town, amp; a can or two of insect spray.

Killing spiders is supposed to bring bad luck -

'If you wish to live amp; thrive,

Let the Spider walk alive'

– but I'll be damned if I'm going to sleep with anything crawling around in here. Anyway, too late now: I'm already a mass murderer. They can add up the total in heaven.

Still hard to know just what to make of the Poroths. Everything they do seems to have a special meaning that outsiders can't begin to understand. Even the farm itself has a kind of religious significance. It's supposed to bring the two of them closer to God – here they can be 'in the world, but not of it,' Sarr says – amp; they're supposed to find satisfaction in the day-to-day labor, rather than in the money it might bring. That's why they have no restrictions against working on Sunday, amp; why progress is such a dirty word to them: it means escape from toil.

Deborah seems to work as hard as Sarr does. She was cleaning up in here when we arrived, on her knees scrubbing the floor. Some- thing curiously erotic about a woman in that position, exerting herself while you're at your ease.

Sarr tried to pitch in amp; help for a while, but finally he excused himself and left. He was probably relieved to get back to the fields; he's sure not much on small talk. At dinner tonight he gave me a blow-by-blow chronicle of this morning's service – apparently the whole community meets each Sunday in someone's back yard, with the Poroths' turn coming up next month – amp; then launched into a long, earnest explanation of the various theological differences between the Brethren amp; the general run of Mennonites, differences he claimed were extremely deep. (For a silent type, he really talks a lot when he gets going.) He lost me after the first minute or two. As far as I'm concerned, they're all just fundamentalists amp; they all wear funny clothes. I've even noticed an occasional 'tis or 'twasn't creeping into their conversation, esp. when they're going in for Bible talk. I gather the townfolk are even more prone to it.

Made my first mistake at dinner tonight. Sat down amp; started to eat, then heard Sarr saying grace. Hastily apologized, of course, amp; waited till he was done, but I find that such things don't embarrass me the way they used to. Maybe that's because I'm nearing thirty.

(Shit, only one goddamned week left. Somehow I dread that moment. Better not to think of it.)

The food, at least, was even better than I'd hoped: chicken, peas, amp; baked potato, with spice cake for dessert. Homemade, too. Deborah obviously likes to cook.

I'll bet she makes Sarr a damned good wife. He kept reaching out to touch her every time she passed where he was sitting. I guess planting makes people horny. Can't say I blame him; I felt almost the same this afternoon, when she was scrubbing my floor. Not that she makes the slightest attempt to be seductive.

I'd like to see her with her hair down. Still can't get that picture of her out of my head, standing there waving goodbye to me, naked beneath that long black dress.

She seems to be the perfect Bountiful Housewife: full breasts, wide hips, always filled with energy. Looks as if she'll bear a lot of children.

Right now, though, those damned cats are the closest thing they've got, amp; they fuss over them as if they were real children. One of them, Sarr's cat, may be a bit of a problem. She's the grey one, the oldest of the lot. She also happens to be the meanest. Maybe she's jealous of the rest, or maybe she was just born with an evil disposition. All I know is, she's the only cat that's ever bitten anyone -various friends amp; relations, including some local bigwig named Brother Joram – amp; after seeing how she snarls at the other cats when they get in her way or come too close while she's feeding, I decided to keep my distance. Fortunately, she seems a bit scared of me amp; retreats whenever I approach.

Probably best to keep away from all of them, in fact. Sneezing, itching eyes, whenever they're around. Should have gone to that allergist when I had the chance.

The Poroths seem pretty catlike themselves. Interesting case of people resembling their pets. Sarr is inclined to be morose amp; somewhat taciturn – a solemn, slightly suspicious tomcat – while Deb is bubbly amp; talkative, as animated as one of the kittens. Clearly a case of opposites attracting, despite the similarity of appearance.

At dinner Sarr said that some of the locals still use 'snake oil' for whatever ails them. Asked him how the snakes were killed, slightly misquoting line from Vathek: 'The oil of serpents I have pinched to death will be a pretty present.' We discussed the wisdom of pinching snakes. Learned there may be a copperhead out back, over near the brook. Somehow the Poroths neglected to mention this on my first visit. Will watch my step. (Though according to my field guide, far more people die each year from bee and wasp stings than from snakebites. Insect venom is more toxic.)

Supposedly there are frogs amp; turtles out there too. Have yet to see any. Maybe they only come out at night.

Over coffee, Sarr talked of the house he hopes to build someday, when the two of them have children. He'll build it out of stone, he said, 'three floors high amp; three feet thick.' Then he shut up, amp; I had to keep the conversation going through dessert. Hate eating in silence: animal sounds of mastication, bubbling stomachs. Didn't some Balzac character claim talk aided digestion? Probably true.

By this time they both looked ready for bed (though I doubt if sleep was the only thing on their minds), so it seemed wise to get out of their way. Brushed my teeth – not forgetting dental floss – amp; took the usual vitamins, just in case.

As soon as I left their place amp; came back here, I began to feel sort of lonely. Still some light left in the sky, but the lawn behind the house was already swarming with fireflies. Never saw so many. Knelt amp; watched them for a while amp; listened to the crickets. That's one sound the city doesn't have. Too bad Carol isn't here; she'd appreciate it.

Wonder if she'll actually come out. Hope my letter made the place sound inviting; hope I didn't lay it on too thick. Maybe I should have been more honest with her. Just as well I didn't mention how narrow my bed is, though – really no more than a cot. That's the sort of thing she can discover on her own. (Also, incentive for losing a bit of weight this week.)

Must remember to get a haircut if I can get into Flemington. May be my last one for quite some time.

Later: After making it through Otranto (not the most auspicious start), wasted nearly an hour arranging my books. First tried putting them in chronological order, since that's the way I hope to read them; but copyright dates can be ambiguous with the older works, amp; too many authors get broken up. Then tried chronologically by date of author's birth, but I didn't know most of these, amp; no way to find out. So back to boring old alphabetical order by author, with anthologies bringing up the rear. (After much deliberation, decided that the works of Saki had to be placed under M for Munro.)

Why am I so neurotic about my books?

Anyway, they look damned nice, lined up on the shelves.

Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794).

Sat up late pushing through volume one. All the elements of classic Gothic romance. Heroine passive but resourceful; hero / villain dark, mysterious, amp; cruel – predating Byron and Brontes. Lots of spook effects. (Understand they're all explained away 'scientifically' at the end of volume two; if so, a bad mistake. M.R. James speaks of her 'exasperating timidity' in this regard. Check reference.) Plot dated, but loved the descriptions of picturesque scenes, esp. Udolpho itself, rugged Apennine castle. Would be nice to put book on curriculum, but only one student in a dozen would read it. Too damned long.

Long for me too. In fact, had to keep remembering to slow down, be patient, let myself unwind. After twenty years of school, I've gotten into habit of skimming everything, as if novels were newspapers. Tried to put myself in frame of mind of eighteenth-century reader with plenty of time on his hands amp; no distractions.

Certainly no distractions here. No TV or movies, no goddamned Sunday Times, no friends to call or drop by… Nothing but the insects batting themselves mindlessly against the screens.

What was it Emerson said in his journal? 'Thank God I live in the country!'

Suppose it's time I got some sleep. Wish to hell there was a bathroom in this building. Poroths said they'd leave the kitchen door unlocked for me, but I sure as hell don't feel like stumbling all the way back there without a flashlight amp; maybe waking the two of them lip. Looks so goddamned dark out there. Where did all the fireflies go?

Maybe I should get a hollow metal oil drum to pee in amp; lift it for exercise each day as it fills, like the guy who started out lifting a calf every morning amp;, by the time it grew up, was strong enough to lift a full-grown bull.

Guess I'll water the grass in front of this building: pissing beneath the stars, just like my ancestors. Very romantic. (Though God knows what'll be crawling up my ankles.)

At least the crickets are still there to keep me company.

Back inside now. Felt vulnerable, standing there against the night, but must say the sky looked spectacular. I don't think I've ever seen so many stars amp; can't remember the last time I actually saw the Milky Way. That's something else the city doesn't have. (Though, typically, my first thought on looking up was, Jesus, it's just like the Planetarium!)

Anyway, stood there gawking till my neck got stiff.

But the real shock was the view I got of this building. The lamp on my desk must be the only illumination for miles, acting as a sort of beacon, amp; I could see dozens of flying shapes making right for the screens. When you're inside here, it's like being in a display case: every eye can watch you, from the woods amp; fields amp; lawn. But all you see is darkness.

It wouldn't be so bad if this room weren't open on three sides -though I suppose that does let in the breeze. Wish the trees didn't crowd so close to the windows by my bed. The middle sections of their trunks are all lit up where the light falls on them; between the undergrowth and roots, there's not even enough space back there to

Two A.M. now, and a few moths are still hovering outside the screens. A little green one must have gotten in when I opened the door. It's flying around this lamp now, along with several gnats too small to kill.

Lots of noise out there, too. How could I have said this place was silent? Trees moving, branches snapping, sounds of breeze amp; running water. Frogs now, croaking somewhere in the distance, with the crickets coming in behind them.

This is what I wanted, I suppose.

Just saw an unpleasantly large spider scurry across the floor near the foot of my bed. Vanished behind the footlocker. Must remember to get that insect spray, amp; flashlight.

Wonder what Carol's doing now.

June Twenty-ninth

Dear Jeremy,

Greetings from the Apple! I'm glad to hear you're enjoying yourself, and that you haven't fallen down any cisterns or caught poison ivy or been eaten by a bear. We'll make an outdoorsman of you yet!

You really deserve a nice long reply, but this one's going to be short, as I'm writing it on my break, with half a dozen people in this tiny office breathing down my neck. I just wanted to let you know that, thanks to good old Rosie, I'll be able to see you more easily than I'd expected. It turns out Rosie owns a car, and he told me I could borrow it this weekend, as he has some 'very important business' (he pursed his little lips and looked oh so stern as he said this) which will be keeping him in New York.

The only drawback is he needs the car on Monday for some Fourth of July affair, so I won't be able to take advantage of the three-day weekend. Still, it'll be nice to get out of the city, and we'll have some time together. I hope to get an early start Saturday morning, so if all goes well I should be there by noon. I wish I had some sort of map, but Gilead sounds like one of those little towns where everybody knows everybody else, so once I get there I'm sure I'll find someone to give me directions to the Poroths. I don't expect to have any trouble; remember, you're dealing with the third runner-up in the B.C. Y.C. Senior Girls' Pathfinder Competition.

Rosie's really done a lot for me, I must admit. He's a very dear person and treats me just like his own daughter-or, rather, granddaughter. He says he doesn't think I'm eating right, so tomorrow, before I come to work, he's taking me out for a champagne brunch at some fancy place on Twenty-first Street. Now that's the sort of life I think I could get used to -a glass or two of bubbly in the morning and I'll be floating all day! And yesterday he brought me a bottle of wine from, as he called it, his 'private cellar' (which is probably just a cupboard above the kitchen sink). Maybe I'll bring it out with me as a house gift this weekend.

I've also been working very hard, believe it or not. I want Rosie to feel he's getting his money's worth. Last Saturday I really buckled down and went through all those articles he gave me, so I could have the summaries ready for him when he dropped by here on Monday. I think that really impressed him, at least I hope so. I charged him for twelve hours' work (actually it took me close to sixteen), and he gave me a check for $ 144 right there on the spot. He took me completely at my word. After the way some people treat me in this stupid library, I really appreciate decency like that.

By the way, rather than go to the trouble and expense of Xeroxing those stories you'd requested, I'll simply bring you the entire book this weekend. It'll be a lot easier, and anyway, Rosie's convinced me that things like that are much more fun to read in the original. I'll sign it out before I leave work today.

Rosie's just amazing when it comes to books -1 mean the things he's learned. You'd be surprised, he's really quite good company, for a person his age. He's been all over the world (mostly doing some kind of heavy research in linguistics), and he tells the most incredible stories. I had him up to my apartment last night, just for coffee and cake, and he talked to me in something called Agon di-Gatuan, which means 'the Old Language.' He's-teaching me a chant in it and promises I'll be able to speak it fluently by the end of summer. It's like nothing I've ever heard.

Well, my break's just about over, and I'd better end now if I want to get this in today's mail. See you on Saturday.

XXX

Carol

P.S. Rosie gave me something for you. I'll be sure to bring it with me. He just loves to give presents. He's also very keen on order, decorum, rules, things like that, and is always telling me how 'old-fashioned' he is – 'and proud of it.' I don't think he quite approves of Rochelle. Last night, just as he was getting ready to leave, she walked in with a few of her friends, and one of the guys made some kind of joke about 'older guys stealing all the best girls.' It was meant to be funny, and Rochelle said I should take it as a compliment, but poor old Rosie looked very upset.

June Thirtieth

On some days he gives way to rages.

Morning finds him on the beach, walking back and forth along the water's edge, the battered old umbrella tucked uselessly beneath his arm. He pays no attention to the flocks of bathers, to the cries of children braving the assaults of the surf or playing on the rubbish-strewn sand, or to the oily, sun-warmed bodies of their elders lying inert upon blankets with radios and picnic baskets by their heads. Humanity, for the moment, is forgotten, its noise and filth and ugliness ignored. He is far too busy studying the patterns of the waves and, at other moments, squinting directly upward into the blinding blue dome of the sky.

To those on the beach, should anyone chance to be watching, this awkward little figure trudging through the wet sand in a baggy blue suit and soggy overshoes which more than once become soaked as a wave breaks over his ankles might seem a tourist from some other era; as he peers up and down the beach, he might well be in search of some seaside vista fit for the amateur painter or photographer. Or perhaps he'd be mistaken for some confused but harmless octogenarian who's wandered out from one of the old-age homes that line the avenue across from the boardwalk.

But the concerns of art and freedom are, in fact, far from his mind. More urgent matters have brought him to the shore today: matters of geography, sand formation, tides.

He is scouting locations.

Suddenly he pauses, grows rigid. Something up the beach has distracted him: a pair of lovers lying together, body to body, in the boardwalk's striped shadow.

Rage sweeps over him like a wave. Jerkily he begins moving toward them, lips tightening, color surging to his face. He can feel, in his fists, the pumping of their loathsome hearts; the air before him rings with ancient voices screaming for a kill. Oh, to perform the Voola'teine! To drown the pair, to burn them where they he, to climb the boardwalk and drop knives upon their flesh through the cracks between the planks. In a vision he sees thrashing young bodies buried beneath waves of smothering sand…

He calms himself in time and turns away. The day is young. He has other sites to visit.

That afternoon he spends walking jauntily through the park, swinging his umbrella, making silent calculations with the figures he discerns in the branches of the trees. As the sun slips behind a horn-shaped cloud, he spies a group of people coming toward him up the path: a slim, bespectacled man and his pale, wide-eyed wife, their little girl in her red sunsuit, and a baby recumbent in a stroller.

And like the sudden waning of the light, his rage returns.

His eyes narrow; his face goes dark; his little hand tightens on the umbrella. Trembling, he whirls and follows them, his face fixed in an amiable smile.

The family turns eastward toward the zoo; he follows, drawing closer. As they stop to exclaim at penguins, hippos, bears, he eases himself beside them, nodding fondly to the parents, watching benignly as they're drawn on toward the panther curled within a spot of shade, the lion dozing grandly in the sunlight, the tiger pacing madly in its cage…

He sees the air vibrate around the tawny form, feels its baffled hunger, shares the beast's longing to leap and slash and rend. Blinking before the cage, smiling at the children, he loses himself in a reverie of death: how he would love to press that vile infant through the bars! to lacerate its flesh! to crush its throbbing neck with his own hands!

And he could do it, too. Though he dares not. Not now.

But for one brief moment, while the gazes of the other three are turned toward the cage and the infant's gaze toward him, he allows his mask to slip. The grin disappears. Eyes go hard. Teeth show in a tigerish snarl…

Smiling once more, he strolls onward, momentarily relieved. Behind him, to the astonishment of its parents, the infant explodes into wails of terror.

North of the zoo, just off the path, rises a small stand of dogwood and magnolia bushes and, hidden behind them, a tiny patch of dark ground that shelters wildflowers. He stands poised in the middle of it now, features contorted as before, swinging about him with his umbrella. Swoosh! – foliage lies slashed to pieces. Swoosh! – heads of flowers are sliced off clean. Knuckles whiten on the umbrella; his complexion grows red; his breath comes in furious gasps between clenched teeth. The air around him shrieks with mangled leaves and tattered blossoms.

The episode lasts but a minute. Afterward, calm once more, the smile back in place, a fragile pink magnolia in his buttonhole, he slips back to the path, umbrella at his side, and heads jauntily for home.

July First

The letter was waiting for him in the kitchen. Freirs read it over lunch. He looked up to see Deborah watching him intently from across the table.

'Remember,' he said, 'I mentioned something about having guests out?' Deborah nodded, while Sarr continued eating. 'Well, I hope it's not going to be inconvenient, but believe it or not, this friend of mine is thinking of driving out here tomorrow. I know it's a little early in the summer, but-'

Deborah silenced him. 'Now don't go worrying yourself. That'll be just fine.' She stood and began clearing away some of the dishes. 'We like having guests out here, don't we, honey?'

Sarr nodded without much enthusiasm. 'Mmm-hmm. Be glad to meet him.'

'Well, actually, it's a girl. Name's Carol. Someone I know from the city.'

Sarr looked up from his dessert with a tiny flicker of annoyance -and perhaps something else. 'She'll be staying overnight?'

'I think so.' Freirs fell silent, reluctant to say more.

Sarr's mouth made a thin straight line. 'We'll put her in the room upstairs.'

Deborah, moving past him, touched his shoulder. 'Honey, isn't that for Jeremy to say?' It drew an angry look.

'Upstairs will be fine,' Freirs said hurriedly, disinclined to make an issue of it. Let them go ahead and prepare a room for her; she wouldn't have to stay there. 'She should be getting here around noon tomorrow. Somebody's lending her his car. I was just wondering about the food situation. If you like, I could drive into town and pick up a few extra things.'

Sarr pushed his chair back from the table. 'No, no need of that. 'Tis a blessing to have guests in a home, and she'll be welcome here.' Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stood. 'Well, guess I'd best see to those cuttings out there, before the worms do.' He turned and left the kitchen, his heavy footsteps echoing on the porch. Moments later they heard him descend the back steps and set out toward the fields.

Freirs waited till he'd gone. 'He didn't look all that pleased, did he?'

'Oh, he's not one to show it, but he's pleased, all right. He likes it when strangers come and look the place over. Reminds him that he really belongs here – that he's back where his roots are.'

'Roots?' Freirs laughed. 'You know, he mentioned something about that the first time he was showing me around. I thought he was kidding.'

Deborah shook her head. 'My husband doesn't jest. This farm's real special to him.'

'But I thought you bought the place just last winter.'

'We did – but Sarr's family owned it a long time before. They were the first to settle here.'

'You mean the Poroths built this place?'

'No, it was on his mother's side. The Troets. They're another one of Gilead's old families.'

'Yes, I remember. A group of them died in a fire.'

'And this is where they lived.'

'You mean the fire was right here? On this site?'

She nodded. 'It was a long time ago – a hundred years or more. Sarr told me about it. He says the house we're in now is the second on this spot, built on the old foundation. The first burned right down to the ground, with naught left but the chimney and this old thing.' She gestured toward the squat cast-iron stove. 'I forget how many people died. Six or seven, I think. Mother, father, babies – the whole family.'

'Except for one,' said Freirs. 'The young boy that people think set it. Matt Geisel told me about him.'

'Well, whatever the cause, it was a tragedy.' She turned back to the dishes.

Freirs nodded, then reached for the pudding bowl. 'Must have happened at night, while they were asleep. Otherwise you'd think they could've gotten out.'

'Yes… Yes, it must have been at night.' Deborah stood at the window, gazing absently into the sunshine. It was barely noon. Freirs sat contented over dessert. Outside lay her garden, the cornfields, the barn, distant hills – familiar things, all of them, the constants of her life; yet it seemed, at the moment, that they hinted at a terrible impermanence. She turned away, busying herself with the washing, but her thoughts were on something else entirely, something madly out of place on so bright and fair a day: the image of a cold black sky and, beneath it, reddening the night for miles around, a pyramid of flame.

She heard a spoon scrape against the bowl. 'Come on, Jeremy,' she said, rousing herself. 'I want to see you finish up that pudding.'

'A real smart choice,' the man is saying. In the sunlight flooding through the open doorway, the smile lines around his mouth show as lines of fatigue. 'It's always a pleasure to deal with someone who knows what he wants.' He marks several spaces with an X and slides the forms across the battered desk. 'Now all I need from you is your John Hancock, there at the bottom of the page… Uh-huh, and there too. .. That's right, very good. Thanks a lot.' Gathering up the papers, he pushes back his chair and stands. 'Now if you'll just wait here a minute, Mr – uh, Rosebottom, I'll get these things taken care of for you right away.'

'You're very kind.'

Outside, in the lot, sunlight gleams from the silent rows of cars. A line of red plastic pennants flutters overhead. Seated by the doorway of the office, the old man hums a tuneless little song and watches the afternoon traffic speed obliviously past. He feels the building vibrate to the rumbling of the trucks and smells the gasoline fumes and the smoke from the exhausts. Here, on the outskirts of the city, the world lies locked in concrete, but bis thoughts are far away, where tiny shafts of green push through the soil and small houses sleep in the shadow of the woods.

Out there, among the farming people, the visitor will now be settled in: reading, or dozing, or engaged in some half-hearted exploration of his new surroundings. Perhaps he has already had his first discouraging taste of loneliness or boredom, unwilling as he might be to admit it. Another day should bring him around – just in time for his birthday and the delivery of the book. When the moment comes, he will be ready.

And as for the woman…

'She's all yours now, mister. Here's the ownership. Your keys are in the car.' The salesman has returned; together they start across the lot, past grill and chrome and windshields bearing scrawled white prices. On one of them the price has been erased. 'Well, here she is. You can drive her right out of here.' He pats the polished metal of the hood. 'She'll give you years of service.'

'Years?' The old man blinks distractedly.

'No question about it! G.M. built these things to last. You can't go wrong buying American.' The hood reverberates hollowly beneath his fist. 'Registration's in the glove compartment, along with your warranty. Like I said, any problems, you got all the coverage you need. It's good up to one year or ten thousand miles, whichever comes first.'

And what if neither comes? the old man wonders, but he is barely listening.

He is thinking of the farm, and of the woman who will visit it this weekend. Her position is much clearer than the man's, her motives quite transparent; her behavior can already be predicted – and provoked. Once a few small tasks are successfully behind her, her education can begin in earnest. She will make a willing pupil.

But there is still another visitor to come – though nobody will think of it as one. At least not till it stands revealed…

'And don't forget,' the salesman is saying, 'there's a free tank of gas waiting for you, right over there at the pump.' He holds open the door. 'Take it from me, mister, you got yourself a lot of car for your money. She'd make it clear around the world.'

The Old One smiles. 'Oh, she won't be going quite that far. Just to New Jersey and back.'