green frame.
'It's not completely fixed up yet,' said Poroth, looking it over with a critical eye. 'I still have to put up the screens. Still, I suppose we ought to go in.'
Inside, the place was surprisingly dark, ivy blocking much of the sunlight. 'I'll have all that trimmed away before you get here,' Poroth said, snapping on a shiny new wall switch that turned on the overhead light. 'If I did it now it would just grow back by summer.'
There was nothing inviting about the room; the best Freirs could do, by an exercise of imagination, was to see it as a kind of monk's cell, unromantic but suited to the intellectual labors he hoped to perform this summer. It had a pale blue linoleum floor with a slightly uneven seam down the middle and was empty save for a sturdy-looking bed (room for just one, Freirs saw), a chest of drawers, and an oppressive-looking old wooden wardrobe standing like a watchman in the corner. There seemed to be only one closet. 'Later this spring I'm going to build some bookshelves in here,' said Poroth, eyeing one of the bare plasterboard walls, 'and we can move in a table for you to use as a desk.' He seemed happy to leave.
The other half of the building, with an entrance of its own at the opposite side, was being used as a storeroom. Its cement floor was packed haphazardly with lumber, battered-looking furniture, and dusty steamer trunks. The air smelled of mildew. Along the front windowsill, a row of dirty Mason jars collected cobwebs and dead flies.
'Deborah wants to fix this up too,' said Poroth, 'since we've already brought in the electricity. She'd like to turn it into another guesthouse.'
Freirs was peering at a pile of old books, their covers warped and faded. The Law of the Offerings. Footsteps of the Master. God's Providence and Gospel. Religious tracts. 'And how do you feel about that?'
The other paused. 'I'd rather see how things work out this summer.
He turned to go, but Freirs had pushed past the furniture to a door in the far wall. 'What does this lead to? A closet?'
'Open it and see.'
Freirs pulled it open, then smiled. He was looking into the other room – his room. With surprise he realized that, in his imagination, he'd already taken possession of it. The familiar linoleum floor and narrow bed looked almost welcoming.
As they strolled outside, Poroth eyed him hesitantly. 'So,' he said at last, 'do you think you want to rent the place?'
'Yes, I do,' said Freirs, though he hadn't really made his mind up till that moment. 'It seems to be just what I'm looking for.'
Poroth nodded. 'Good.' He sounded, Freirs thought, as if he meant it, but he wasn't smiling, and there was uncertainty in his face. Freirs felt faintly disappointed. 'And when do you think you'd want to come?'
'Probably right after my last class ends. There's a Friday evening course I'm teaching that doesn't get out till the twenty-fourth of June. I figured I'd come out here that weekend.'
'AH right. We'll try to be ready for you.' Instead of turning back toward the house, he was moving in the direction of the fields and obviously expected Freirs to follow. 'By the time you come out, I should have this land cleared off all the way back to the brook.' He gestured toward the line of distant trees. 'And it'll be under cultivation.'
To the west a row of stumps showed where Poroth was engaged in cutting back a column of encroaching pine. Immediately ahead the land was bare, but marked by scattered mounds of ashes where great piles of underbrush and weeds had been burned. It looked like the aftermath of a battle.
'Of course, this place needs plenty of work,' said Poroth, gazing around with apparent satisfaction. 'That's what happens when land lies idle for so long. Deborah and I are already behind in our labors. Most of the Brethren finished planting weeks ago, beneath the last full moon.'
'That sounds quite picturesque. What do you people grow?'
'Corn. That's what this land is made for. 'Therefore God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and plenty of corn and wine.' Of course, the Indian corn I'll be planting isn't what old Isaac had in mind.'
'Ah. Hmm.' What the hell was the guy talking about? 'Are you people allowed to drink wine?'
'In moderation.' He turned. 'And you?'
Freirs patted his stomach. 'Like I said before, my vice is food.'
Poroth smiled, but only for a moment; then his face resumed its old preoccupied look, and he continued walking.
Before them rose the huge, sagging shape of the barn and, beside it, a gnarled old black willow with scales like a dinosaur, practically touching the overhanging roof, as if tree and barn had grown up together. Beyond it the still-uncleared land lay covered with the same ropy-looking weeds and homely little saplings that Freirs had seen in New York vacant lots.
The barn was where Poroth kept his truck at night. Flies buzzed over the ancient hay still scattered on the floor, though it had obviously been many years since livestock had sheltered here. Leaning against the wall lay a rusty collection of farm implements and, in the shadows at the back, an antiquated mowing machine that Poroth said he planned to repair. They all looked to Freirs like museum pieces; it was hard to picture anyone actually using them.
Along the left side of the barn, on a loft platform as high as Freirs' head and reachable by means of a trapdoor and a simple wooden ladder, Poroth had constructed a chicken coop. At the moment it housed only four fat hens, all recent purchases, and a pugnacious-looking black rooster who glared at Freirs accusingly, as if aware that under normal circumstances it would have been inhabiting Freirs' quarters.
'They're from Werner Klapp's farm right here in Gilead,' Poroth explained. He shooed away a cat that was pawing the ladder. 'They're not laying regularly yet, but by summer we should be getting all the eggs we need.'
By summer. By summer. This was the Poroths' refrain. It was rather inspiring, how optimistic they were, as if the two of them, those earnest children, could make this place a paradise all by themselves. Freirs almost believed it might be possible. He knew he couldn't do it, couldn't repair houses, move masses of earth, apply the magic that would make the land yield its secret stored-up fruit. But these were rural people, country-born despite their lack of experience. Who could say what they'd be capable of?
Near the barn stood a small grey-shingled smokehouse covered with brambles and vines, its door hanging partially open. 'I wouldn't go poking around there,' said Poroth, giving it a wide berth.
'Why?'
'Wasps.' He nodded toward a few black insects hovering like guards above the doorway. 'They've got a nest in there, just below the roof. I mean to clean them out as soon as I get the chance.'
Freirs peered inside as they passed. The ceiling, like that of the porch at the Go-operative, was arrayed with wicked-looking iron hooks where probably, years before, hams and bacon had hung.
Down the slope from it lay the shallow brook he'd seen from the back porch. Flowing past rocks and fallen trees, it curved out from the woods and ran a meandering course past the acres of stubble that might some day be a cornfield, until it lost itself again in the swampier woods to the west. Legally the Poroths' property extended far beyond its banks, but all the area on the other side was forest now – a dense wilderness of pine, oak, and maple that, in this century, at least, had never known a woodman's axe – so that the brook effectively marked the southwest border of the land.
It also marked the limits of the afternoon's tour. Poroth, taking a position at the water's edge, stood with arms folded, surveying the-brook's winding path as if he contemplated rerouting it. 'We've got minnows here, frogs, a few turtles,' he said. 'Still, it's no trout stream.'
'In that case I won't bring my fishing pole.' Freirs stared idly into the brook's clear depths. He was eager to get back to the farmhouse, and maybe spend some more time with Deborah before returning to the city. He glanced at his watch: nearly a quarter to five. They would have to be starting back soon. Already the sun was sinking toward the western pines. He thought of the work he'd meant to do by Monday that would be waiting for him in the heat of his apartment.
Poroth had seen him check the time. 'Well, there's really nothing more to show you,' he said morosely. 'We may as well be – ah, here you are!' He was looking down at a large grey cat by his feet. 'This is Bwada.' He bent
