Deus Irae

Four

Later that night, after pretty red-haired Lurine Rae and Tibor McMasters on his cow cart had respectively walked and rolled off, Pete Sands elected to discuss his vision with Dr. Abernathy.

Dr. Abernathy did not approve. “If you keep on having visions, I’m going to advise you that you be forbidden to approach the rail.”

“You’d cut me off from the greatest of the sacraments?” Pete could not believe it. Surely the short, roosterlike, red-faced, round little old priest was merely in a temporary—and for him quite normal—dark mood.

“Well, if you’re having visions, you don’t need the intercession of the priest and the saving power of the sacraments.”

Pete said, “You want to know what He—”

“His appearance,” Dr. Abernathy said, “is not a topography which I care to discuss, as if you’d seen a rare butterfly.”

Plunging in, Pete said, “Receive my confession, then. Now.” He knelt, hands clasped together, waited.

“I’m not dressed properly.”

“Balls.”

Dr. Abernathy sighed, departed, and presently returned in the white robes necessary; pulling a chair into place, he seated himself with his back to Pete. Then, crossing himself, after praying inaudibly, he said, “May Thy ears receive the humble confession of this, Thy servant, who has erred and wishes to be received back into Thy bountiful grace.”

“Here’s how He looked,” Pete began.

Interrupting, Dr. Abernathy, slightly more loudly, prayed, “Cause this, Thy servant, now puffed up with vainglory and imagining in his dustlike ignorance that he has direct access to Thy Holy Presence through what is a chemical and magical process devoid of sanctification—”

“He is always there,” Pete said.

“In confession,” Dr. Abernathy said, “do not recount the actions of others, even of Him.”

Pete declared, “I most humbly confess that I deliberately ingested drugs of an intricate nature for the purpose of transcending ordinary reality for a glimpse of the absolute, and this was wrong. Further, I confess that in all honesty. I believed in and still do believe in the veracity of my vision, that I genuinely saw Him, and if I am mistaken, I beg Him to forgive me, but if it was Him, then He must have wished—”

“From dust thou art come,” Dr. Abernathy interrupted. “Oh man, how small thou art. Lord God, open this idiotic fool’s inner heart to the wisdom of Thee: which is that no man can see Thee and announce predicate adjectives as to Thy appearance and being.”

“I confess further,” Pete said, “that I did harbor and still harbor resentment at being told to desist from my personal search for God, and that I believe that one man working alone can still find Him. Without the mediation of the priest, the sacraments, and the church; this I confess most humbly to believe and although I know it is wrong I nonetheless still believe it.”

They sat in silence for an interval and then Pete Sands said, “Funny you should say that ‘dust to dust’ thing. It reminds me of what Ho On said about being made from the clay of the ground.”

Dr. Abernathy stared at him fixedly.

“What’s the matter?” Pete said uneasily.

“ ‘Ho On’?”

“Yes. In my vision—the ceramic pot gave that as its name. Silly pot, silly name. Must have been a silly hallucinogenic; probably had some of those wartime disorientation chemicals in it that—”

Dr. Abernathy said, in a surprisingly grave voice, “That is Greek.”

“Greek!”

“I’m not positive of precision, but it’s a name God gave Himself in the Bible, in the Greek part. Yahweh, as a Hebrew verb, means something in the older part, when He talks to Moses… it’s a form of the verb ‘to be’; it describes His nature. ‘I am He Who causes to be,’ is what Yahweh literally means. So that Moses could report back to his people the nature—that is, the ontology—of his God. But Ho On…” The priest pondered. “The Essence of Essence. The Most Holy? The On High? The Ultimate Power?”

Laughing, Pete said, “This was a little clay pot. Anyhow, as you say, I was tripping out on drugs. At first it said, ‘Oh Ho,’ and then it went, ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ and finally ‘Ho On.’”

“But that is Greek.”

Pete asked, “Who was St. Sophia?”

“There never was any St. Sophia.”

At that, Pete started laughing in the fashion of a man joyfully flashing back to what had been a good drug trip. “No St. Sophia? A pot that calls itself God, and a revelation about a non-existent saint—that was some mixture I took. Once in a lifetime. You’re right; it is black mass. A saint is going to be reborn—”

“I’ll look it up,” Dr. Abernathy said. “But I’m sure there was no such saint…” He departed for a time, then, abruptly, returned carrying a large old book with him, a reference book. “St. Sophia,” he declared loudly, “was a building.”

“A building!”

“A very famous building, destroyed of course during the smash. The emperor Justinian had it personally constructed. The name for it, Haggia Sophia, is Greek. Also Greek, like Ho On. It means ‘the Wisdom of God.’ She—it—is going to be reborn?”

“That’s what Ho On told me,” Pete said.

Seating himself, Dr. Abernathy said carefully, “What else did this Ho On, this ceramic pot, say to you?”

“Nothing important. It complained a lot. Oh yes: it said that St. Sophia hadn’t been acceptable before.”

“And you derived nothing more?”

“Well, nothing that—”

“ ‘Haggia Sophia,’ “ the priest said, “can also refer to the Word of God, and hence by extension is a cypher for Christ. It is a cypher within a cypher: Haggia Sophia; St. Sophia; the Wisdom of God; the Logos; Christ; and therefore, according to our Trinitarian beliefs, God. Read, ahem… ah: Proverbs 8:22-31. Most fascinating.”

“A saint that never even existed,” Pete said. “The pot put me on. It was a gag. It was pulling my leg.”

“Are you still sleeping with Lurine Rae?” The priest’s voice had a sudden, hardly expected sharpness to it; he blinked.

“Um, yes,” Pete muttered.

“So this is the road our converts travel to reach us.”

Pete said, “When you’re losing you’re losing. I mean, you take them as they come.”

“I order you,” Dr. Abernathy said, “to stop sleeping with that girl, whom you are not married to.”

“If I do that she won’t join the Christian Church.”

There was silence. Each man regarded the other, heavily breathing; faces flushed, the two of them glared disapproval and masculine authority, with overtones of some deeper, higher mandate, obscurely articulated but nonetheless there.

“And the visions,” Dr. Abernathy said. “It is time you gave them up as well. You confessed the use of vision-inducing drugs. I am instructing you to turn all such drugs over to me.”

“Wh-wh-what?”

The priest nodded. “Right now.” He held out his hand.

“I never should have confessed.” His voice trembled and he could not, for the life of him, keep it steady. “Listen,” he said, “how about a deal? I’ll stop sleeping with Lurine, but you let me keep—”

Dr. Abernathy stated, “I am more concerned with the drugs. There is a satanic element involved, a vitiated but still-real black mass.”

“You’re”—Pete gestured—”out of your mind!”

The hand remained. Waiting.

“ ‘Black mass.’ “ Disgusted, he said, “Some deal. I can’t win; I either—” Too much, he thought gloomily. What a mistake it had been to slip over into the formal relationship with Abernathy; the priest had ceased to be a man, had assumed transcendent power. “Penance,” he said aloud. “You’ve got me. Okay; I have to give up my whole goddamn supply of medication. What a victory for you, tonight. What a reason for joining the Christian Church; you have to give away everything you like, even the search for God! You sure don’t want converts very bad—as a matter of fact, it strikes me as weird, the way you discouraged McMasters; my god, you as much as told him right flat to his face that he ought to go back to Handy and do his job and not be a convert. Is that what you want? For him to stay there with the SOWers and go on his Pilg, which he’s trying so darn hard to get out of? What a way to run a church; no wonder you’re losing out, like I said.”

Dr. Abernathy continued to extend his open hand, waiting.

Just that one thing, Pete Sands reflected. Not picking up when the inc asked to join us so as not to go on the Pilg; why didn’t you pick up on that? It wasn’t that difficult a decision; normally, Dr. Abernathy would have conscripted Tibor into the Christian Church instantly: Pete Sands had witnessed such abrupt total conversions many times.

“I’ll tell you what,” Pete said aloud. “I’ll turn over my supply of medication to you if you’ll tell me why you blocked McMasters when he tried to duck in here. Okay? A deal?”

“He should have courage. He should stand up to the duties imposed on him. Even by a false and profane mimic-church.”

“Aw, you must be kidding.” It still rang wrong; in fact even more so, now. Asked outright for his reason, Dr. Abernathy revealed that he had no reason. Or rather, Pete realized musingly, he isn’t telling.

“The drugs,” Dr. Abernathy said. “I told you why I abstained from the temptation of enticing one of the finest murch painters in the Rocky Mountain area into the Church of Christ; now give me—”

“Anything,” Pete Sands said quietly.

“Pardon?” Blinking, Dr. Abernathy cupped his ear. “Oh, I see. Anything else instead of the—medication.”

“Lurine and anything else,” Pete said in a voice that almost refused to be heard; he was in fact unsure whether the priest had caught all the words or only the tone. But the tone by itself; that would convey everything. In all his life, even during the war, he had never sounded quite like that. At least so he hoped.

“Hmm,” Dr. Abernathy said. “ ‘Lurine and anything else.’ Rather a grandiose offer. You must have become habituated to one or more of your drugs; correct?” He eyed Pete keenly.

“Not the drugs,” Pete said, “but that which the drugs show me.”

“Let me think.” Dr. Abernathy pondered. “Well, nothing enters my mind tonight… possibly it would be worth shelving for now; I can perhaps stipulate some alternative tomorrow or the day after.”

And not only this, Pete thought, but you also won all the silver I had on me when we began the game tonight. Jeez.

“By the way,” Dr. Abernathy said. “How is Lurine in bed? Are her breasts, for example, as firm as they appear?”

“She’s like the tides of the sea,” Pete said gloomily. “Or the wind that sweeps across the plain. Her breasts are like mounds of chicken fat. Her loins—”

Grinning, Dr. Abernathy said, “In any case, it’s been a pleasure for you to have known her. In the biblical sense.”

“You really want to know how she is? Average. And after all, I’ve had plenty of women. Lots of them were better lays, and lots of them worse,” Pete said. “That’s all.”

Dr. Abernathy continued to grin.

“What’s funny?” Pete demanded.

“Perhaps it’s the way hungry men speak of smorgasbords,” Dr. Abernathy replied.

Pete reddened, knowing the flush would reach the crown of his head, all visible.

He shrugged and turned away. “What’s it to you?”

“Curiosity,” said Dr. Abernathy, scratching his chin and pulling his smile straight. “I’m a curious man, and even secondhand carnal knowledge is knowledge.”

“And perhaps too many years in the confessional promote a certain voyeurism,” Pete observed.

“If so, this in no way vitiates the sacrament,” said Dr. Abernathy.

“I know about the Waldensians,” said Pete. “What I said was—”

“—That I’m a peeping Tom.” Dr. Abernathy sighed and rose, adjusting his cassock as he stood. “Okay, I’ll be going now.”

Pete accompanied him to the door, letting Tom Swift And His Electric Magic Carpet out at the same time, for his usual evening business.

The dust fought the dew and the former settled to the ground, save for that raised by the cow and kicked back into his face. Tibor turned his head to the side and regarded the colors of morning.

The colors… Christ! the colors! he thought. In the morning everything lives in a special way—the wet-green leaves and the oily grayblue of the jay’s feathers—the brownwetblack of the road-apple—everything! Everything is special until about eleven o’clock. Then the color is still there, but a certain magic is gone out of the world, a wet magic. There was a faint haze in the western corner of the nine-thirty world. He thought of all the shadows in all the Rembrandt repros he had seen. So easy to fake, that man, he thought. They talk of the Rembrandt eyes. What ever do they see? Whatever they want. Because there is nothing there but shadows. He was not a morning painter, so he would be easy to fake. But all those wetmorning people, the impressionists—lumped together perhaps only because they sat in the same corner of the Cafe Gaibois—they would be harder to emulate. They saw something like this and drew perfect circles about it.

He watched the birds and digested their flight. It was too good a morning. He etched it within his mind. He did it in watercolors. He did it in oils, the hard way, layer by painful layer.

To keep something else out, he did it.

What?

The cow made a soft, lowing noise and he murmured to her as softly.

God! how he hated to work by artificial light! It was sufficient for pieces, for corners and borders, for supporting material, but the final product—das Dinge selber—this must be a thing of Morgen.

And his mind came back, full circle, and the morning and the colors went away, for a time.

Dr. Abernathy’s place was over the hill and around the corner, and then about a mile. By ten o’clock, at this pace, he would be at the front door. What then? He tried to block the thought by sketching a tree, in his mind. But autumn came down upon it; the leaves withered and fell, were swept away. What then?

It was a thing that had taken him suddenly, the notion of a God of mercy and love. Only a few days ago, as a matter of fact. If they’d take him in and baptize him, he would not even have to be shrived, as he understood it. Not to be confused with the heretical notions of the Anabaptists, he realized with a certain pleasure that this would relieve him of the necessity of confessing to the thoughts he had held, of Helen, with the breasts like clouds, Lurine, with the skin like milk, Fay, with the mouth like honey, of the paint he had diverted to his own use, of the blocks of stone he had stolen to sculpt. What would Dr. Abernathy say? Oh, hell! He would counsel him, give him a catechism to study, test him later, baptize him, admit him as a communicant. What was it then that broke the morning? The night before, he had dreamed of his mural. Carl Lufteufel was a vacuum in the middle, crying out to be filled. The face in the repro which Dominus McComas had shown him always looked slightly past him. Not really at him. Not yet. Once he saw the man and captured the eyes—not hidden like those of a Rembrandt, no!—but the eyes of the God of Wrath, actually focused upon him, and all the slack/tightened/flaccid muscles of That Face, the bags or black smudges under the eyes, the parallelograms of the brow—all these things—once they were turned upon him, if only for a morning’s instant, then that vacuum would be filled. Once he saw it, all the world would see it—by his seeing and the six fingers of his steel hand.

He spat, licked his lips, and coughed. The morning was too much with him.

The Holstein—Darlin’ Corey—turned the corner, and then about a mile remained.

He moved slowly into the study and regarded the priest.

“Thank you,” Tibor said, accepting a cup of coffee and manipulating it slowly into a position allowing two quick, scalding sips.

Dr. Abernathy added cream and sugar to his own and stirred noisily.

They sat awhile in silence, then Dr. Abernathy said, “You want to become a Christian.” Whatever question mark may have followed the sentence was a thing implied only, by a slight raising of the eyebrows.

“I am—interested. Yes. As I said last night—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Needless to say, I am pleased that our example has impressed you in this fashion.” He turned away then and stared out his window and said, “Can you believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, and in his only begotten son Jesus Christ our Lord, born of the virgin Mary, who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried, and on the third day rose again?”

“I think so,” said Tibor. “Yes, I think so.”

“Do you believe He will come to judge the living and the dead?”

“I can, if I try,” Tibor said.

“You’re an honest man, anyhow,” Dr. Abernathy said. “Now, despite the rumor that we’re looking for business, we’re not. I’d love to welcome you to the fold, but only if you’re sure that you know what you’re doing. For one thing, we’re poorer than the Servants of Wrath. So, if you’re looking for business here, forget it. We can’t afford murals or even illuminated manuscripts.”

“That was the farthest thing from my mind, Father,” said Tibor.

“All right,” said Dr. Abernathy. “I just wanted to be sure that we were meeting on the same ground.”

“I’m certain that we are,” said Tibor.

“You’re in the employ of the SOWs,” said Dr. Abernathy, pronouncing each letter.

“I’ve taken their money,” said Tibor. “I’ve a job to do for them.”

“What do you think of Lufteufel, really?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“A difficult subject,” said Tibor, “since I’ve never seen him. I have a need to paint from experience. A photograph—such as the one they furnished me—it would do only if I could lay eyes on the man himself, if but for an instant.”

“What do you think of him as God?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“I don’t know,” said Tibor.

“… As man?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“I don’t know.”

“If you have doubts, then why do you wish to switch at this point in the game?” Dr. Abernathy asked. “Perhaps it would be better to resolve them within the context where they arose.”

“Your religion has something more to offer,” said Tibor.

“Like what?” asked Dr, Abernathy.

“Love, faith, hope,” said Tibor.

“Yet you’re taking their money,” Dr. Abernathy said.

“Yes,” said Tibor. “I’ve already made an agreement with them.”

“One which requires a Pilg?” Dr. Abernathy asked.

“Yes,” said Tibor.

“If you convert today, what will you do about this commission?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“Give it up,” said Tibor.

“Why?” Dr. Abernathy inquired.

“Because I don’t want to make the Pilg,” said Tibor.

They both sipped their coffee.

Finally, “You think you’re being an honest man,” said Dr. Abernathy. “One who meets all his commitments. Yet you want to come over to us in order to break faith with them.”

Tibor looked away. “I could give them back the money,” he said.

“True,” said Dr. Abernathy, “as it is commanded, “Thou shalt not steal.’ This applies to the SOWs, as well as anyone else—so it is only just that either you give it back or keep your promise and paint the mural. On the other hand, what is it they have really asked you to do?”

“A mural involving the God of Wrath,” said Tibor.

“Just so,” said Dr. Abernathy. “And where does God live?”

“I do not understand,” said Tibor, sipping his coffee.

“Is it not true that He dwells in all places and all times, as eternity is His home?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“I think the SOWs and the Christians both agree on this point.”

“I believe so,” said Tibor. “Only, as God of This World—”

“Well, He might be found anywhere,” said Dr. Abernathy.

“Father, I fail to follow you,” said Tibor.

“What if you do not succeed in locating Him?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“Then I should be unable to complete the mural,” said Tibor.

“And what would you do then?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“Continue with what I’ve been doing,” said Tibor, “painting signs, painting houses. I’d give back the money, of course—”

“Why need you resort to this extreme? Since God—if he be God—may be found anywhere, this being his world, it would seem you might properly seek him there,” said Dr. Abernathy.

With a certain uneasiness, and yet a glimmer of fascination, Tibor said, “I’m afraid I still don’t see what you mean, sir.”

“What if you saw his face in a cloud?” said Dr. Abernathy. “Or in the shiftings of the Great Salt Lake, at night, under the stars? Or in a fine mist descending just as the heat of day departed?”

“Then it would only be a guess,” said Tibor, “a—a fake.”

“Why?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“Because I’m only mortal,” said Tibor, “and therefore liable to error. If I were to guess, I might guess wrong.”

“Yet if it be his will that this thing be done, would he allow this error?” asked Dr. Abernathy in a strong, measured voice. “Would he allow you to paint the wrong face?”

“I don’t know,” said Tibor. “I don’t think so. But—”

“Then why don’t you save yourself much tune, effort, and grief,” said Dr. Abernathy, “and proceed in this manner?”

After a pause, Tibor murmured, “I don’t feel it would be right.”

“Why not?” said Dr. Abernathy. “He could really be anyone, you know. Chances are, you’ll never find the real Carl Lufteufel.”

“Why not?” said Tibor. “Because it wouldn’t be right, that’s why. I’ve been commissioned to paint the God of Wrath in the center of the mural—in appropriate lifelike authentic colors—so it is therefore important to know him as he really is.”

“Is it all that important?” said Dr. Abernathy. “How many people knew his appearance in the old days? And if they are living, how many of them would recognize him today—if he be still living, that is?”

“It’s not that,” said Tibor. “I know I could fake it, that I could manufacture a face—just from the repro I’ve seen. The thing of it is, though, it wouldn’t be true.”

“True?” said Dr. Abernathy. “True? What’s truth? Would it detract from a single SOW’s devotion were he to look upon the wrong face, so long as his feeling were proper in terms of his faith? Of course not. I’m not trying to denigrate those you may consider my competitors. Far from it. It is you that I value. A Pilg is a risky thing at best. What would be gained by losing you? Nothing. What would be lost by losing you? A soul and a good painter, perhaps. I should hate to lose you on a matter of such small consequence.”

“It is not a matter of small consequence, Father,” said Tibor. “It is a matter of honesty. I have been paid to do a thing, and by God!—yours or theirs—I must do it properly. This is the way that I work.”

“Peace,” said Dr. Abernathy, raising his hand. He took another sip of coffee, then said, “Pride, too, is a sin. For by this, Lucifer fell from heaven. Of all the Deadly Seven, Pride is the worst. Anger, Avarice, Envy, Lust, Sloth, Gluttony—these represent man’s relationships to others and the world. Pride, however, is absolute. It represents the subjective relationship of a person to himself. Therefore, it is the most mortal of them all. Pride requires nothing of which to be proud. It is the ultimate in narcissism. I feel, perhaps, that you are a victim of such sentiments.”

Tibor laughed. Then he gulped coffee.

“I fear you have the wrong man,” he said. “I’ve precious little of which to be proud.” He placed the coffee cup before him and raised his metal hand. “You would call me proud—of anything? Hell! I’m half machine, sir! Of all the sins you’ve named, it’s probably the one with least application.”

“I wouldn’t bet money on it,” said Dr. Abernathy.

“I came to discuss religion with you,” said Tibor.

“That’s true,” said Dr. Abernathy, “that’s true. I think that that is what we are discussing. I am trying to place your task in proper perspective before you. More coffee?”

“Yes, please,” said Tibor.

Dr. Abernathy poured and Tibor looked out the window. Eleven o’clock, that moment of truth, was passing over the world, he knew. For something had just gone out of it. What it was, he would never know.

He sipped and thought back upon the previous evening.

“Father,” he said, finally, “I don’t know who’s right or wrong—you or them—and maybe I’ll never know. But I can’t cheat somebody when I tell them I’m going to do a thing. If it had been the other way around, I’d give you the same consideration.”

Dr. Abernathy stirred and sipped. “And maybe we wouldn’t really have cared if you could not have found us the Christ for our Last Supper,” he said, “so long as you did a good job. I am not trying to dissuade you from doing what you think is right. It is just that I think that you are wrong, and you could make things a lot easier on yourself.”

“I’m not asking for easy things, Father.”

“You are making me sound like something I am not trying to be,” said Dr. Abernathy. “It is only, I repeat, that I think there is a way in which you could make things easier on yourself.”

“In other words, you want me to go away for a time, pretend to have seen the face I should see, paint it, and be done with it,” said Tibor.

“To be quite frank about it,” said Dr. Abernathy, “yes. You would be cheating no one—”

“Not even myself?” asked Tibor.

“Pride,” said Dr. Abernathy, “pride.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Tibor, lowering his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“Because it wouldn’t be right,” said Tibor. “I’m not that sort of man. As a matter of fact, your suggestions have given me second thoughts about your religion. I believe I’d like to postpone my decision with respect to converting.”

“As you would,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Of course, by our teachings, your immortal soul will be in constant jeopardy.”

“Yet,” said Tibor, “you may consider no man damned, isn’t that right?”

“That is true,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Who gave you that Jesuitical bit of knowledge?”

“Fay Blaine,” said Tibor.

“Oh,” Dr. Abernathy said.

“Thank you for your coffee, sir,” said Tibor. “I believe I’d better be going…”

“May I give you a catechism?—something to read along the way?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You don’t like me or respect me, do you, Tibor?”

“Let me reserve my opinion, Father.”

“Reserve it, then, but take this,” said Dr. Abernathy.

“Thank you,” said Tibor, accepting the pamphlet.

Dr. Abernathy said, “I will disclose something more to you which you should know. I came across it in a textbook about the religions of the ancient Greeks. Their god Apollo was a god of constancy, and when tested he always was found to be the same. This was a major quality in him; he was what he was … always. In fact, one could define Apollo by this, and the Apollonian personality in humans.” He coughed and went on rapidly, “But Dionysus, the god of unreason, was the god of metamorphosis.”

“What is ‘metamorphosis’?” Tibor asked.

“Change. From one form to another. Thus you see, the God of Wrath, also being a god of unreason, like Dionysus, can be expected to hide, to camouflage himself, to conceal, to be what he is not; can you imagine worshiping a god who, rather than is, is what he is not?”

Tibor gazed at him in perplexity. Perplexity, the efforts of two ordinary men, filled the room: perplexity, not understanding.

“These sayings are hard,” Dr. Abernathy said, at last. He rose to his feet. “I’ll see you again on your return?”

“Perhaps,” said Tibor, activating his cart.

“The Christian God—” Dr. Abernathy hesitated, seeing how worn Tibor looked, worn by perplexity. “He is the God of unchange. ‘I am what I am,’ as God puts it to Moses, in the Bible. That is our God.”

Outside, all magic had fled from the noonday world, the sun had hidden its face behind a brief cloud, and Darlin’ Corey had eaten a bumblebee and was ill.