Ceremonies

Deep in the orange one's throat a warning sound begins, a growl of anger and alarm…

Before the sound grows louder the intruder is gone, racing onward through the hall and down the stairs. It remembers the house perfectly; it knows where it must go.

Turning at the foot of the stairs, it passes through the lower hall and stops before a doorway. Then it is gone once more, vanished down the steps into the darkness of the cellar.

July Twenty-third

Freirs fell asleep just before dawn and dreamed he was fleeing down an endless dark passageway from something small and silent and untiring, but that was also huge, bigger than he was, bigger than the labyrinth he struggled through. In the distance someone called his name. He awoke with sunlight in his eyes – and had a moment of terror. A face was studying him through the gash in the screen.

It was Poroth, standing outside on the lawn, a rake in one hand.

'It's almost eleven,' he said softly. 'You asked me to wake you today.' He pointed to the torn screen. 'What's this? Has she been back?'

Freirs nodded sleepily, sitting up in bed. 'It was her, all right. She tried to get in here last night, but for some reason she gave up. I haven't seen her since.'

Rubbing his eyes, he slipped on his glasses and peered through the screen, wondering if the animal might still be nearby. By daylight the farm seemed a completely different place; it was impossible amid the tranquilizing warmth, the singing of the birds, the bright green canopy of maple leaves dancing in the sunshine, that anything terrible could ever happen here.

Poroth gazed gloomily at the damaged screen. Shaking his head, he pulled the two sides closed. 'The animal is cursed,' he muttered, 'or else I am.' He looked down at Freirs. 'Well, maybe she'll stop her mischief once you're gone. I don't pretend to understand the devil.' Shouldering the rake, he turned to leave. 'I'll be out by the barn, for now. Let me know when you're ready and I'll drive you into town.' He nodded toward the farmhouse. 'Deborah'll have some lunch for you before you go.'

Yawning, Freirs watched him move off toward the barn and disappear around the back, returning moments later with a tall ladder. Raising it against one side and hoisting the rake, he began to climb. As Freirs turned to dress, he saw Poroth poking morosely at a network of gypsy moth nests that bulged like white hammocks beneath the eaves.

The bus would be leaving at a quarter to one. Freirs would not have time to dawdle. The thought of leaving prompted an unexpected wave of sadness, but he forced it down. That’s just dumb, he thought. Instant nostalgia! You always feel bad about leaving a place you know you'll never see again. Throwing a towel around his neck and buttoning his shirt, he walked outside and headed for the farmhouse.

The kitchen smelled of baking bread. Deborah seemed in a better mood this morning than she'd been in yesterday. The disappointment at his leaving was still apparent, but it was with her usual energy that she hurried around the kitchen, kneading a yellowy mass of dough, periodically checking a second loaf in the oven. 'If

I'd had more time,' she said. 'I'd've cooked you up a big fat blueberry pie for you to take back to New York. Do you do your own cooking?'

'Some,' said Freirs. 'I eat a lot of meals out. But none of it's as good as I've had here.'

She smiled broadly, wiping her hands on her apron. 'I sure wish I had time to make you something nice for lunch, but there's a million things I've got to do before tomorrow morning.' Taking a loaf of brown bread from the shelf, she sliced off several pieces with the bread knife. 'It's a shame you won't be able to come to worship.' She shrugged. 'But then, you'd probably be bored by it anyway.'

Freirs watched her pour him a small glass of milk. 'I'd give you more,' she said, 'but there isn't much left. There's that trouble at the Verdocks' with poor Lise, and Sarr says Brother Matthew didn't have anything to sell this morning either. His cows haven't been right.' She set a plate before him. The sandwich she'd made was enormous – ham and cheese on thick slices of brown bread. Freirs ate it with a twinge of regret: it was the same as the first meal she'd ever served him.

When he got back outside, he saw that Poroth had abandoned the ladder and was crouched precariously on the lower edge of the barn roof. Freirs winced as the other reached beneath the eaves with bis bare hand and hurled down a writhing clump of caterpillars.

Eventually Poroth looked up, noticed him watching, and nodded in the direction of the road. He called, 'You about ready to go?'

'In a minute. I just have to get the rest of my things together.'

A few bugs, having found their way into his room through the tear in the screen, were now buzzing against the wire trying vainly to find a way out. Nature! he said to himself. He fastened the clasp of his suitcase and strapped on his watch. It was an automatic, supposed to wind itself from the movement of his wrist, but he'd worn it so seldom out here that he now had to wind it by hand. Taking his wallet from the dresser drawer, he slipped it into his pocket, followed by the unfamiliar bulge of his apartment keys, a handful of loose change, and a New York subway token.

Briefly a sound reached him from the farmhouse, a single muffled wail, but it died away in the air. He was tying twine around a final stack of books when, from across the lawn, he heard the thump of something hitting the ground. He looked outside in time to see

Poroth stumbling to his feet; in an instant he was off and running toward the farmhouse. Freirs saw him dash up the back steps and disappear inside, and moments later heard him shouting Deborah's name. Knocking aside the books, Freirs hurried after him.

He entered the house just as the other, with pounding feet, was coming down the stairway from the second floor. 'She's here somewhere,' Poroth said. 'I heard her scream.' Suddenly his gaze fell upon the peg high on the wall where the extra lantern usually hung. The lantern was gone. 'The cellar!' he cried. Rounding the hallway, he paused at the top of the steps and peered worriedly into the darkness. 'There's another lantern in the kitchen,' he called over his shoulder. 'Get it and follow me.' Putting out his hand to feel his way, he started down.

'Wait!'

The voice had come from below them, up through the cracks in the floor. It was feeble, a mere croaking, nothing at all like the voice they knew. 'Wait,' they heard again. 'I'm… all right now. Give me just-' It paused. 'Just one moment.'

There was a slow, unsteady shuffling from within the cellar, then the clump of footfalls on the wooden steps. Gradually the outline of a dark form appeared, advancing slowly toward them up the stairs. Sarr reached down and grasped her arm, and moments later Deborah staggered out into the light. She was clutching her bunched-up apron to her throat. The apron had been white; now it was sticky and red where the patches of blood had seeped through.

Suddenly her eyes rolled up, her legs buckled, and she tilted forward. Sarr caught her before she hit the floor. Lifting her as lightly as if she were a rag doll, he carried her upstairs, two steps at a time, and laid her gently on the bed in their room..

Freirs followed them up. Deborah seemed to be still conscious -her eyes were open and she was staring dully at the ceiling – but her always pale skin was now deathly white save for dark skull-like rings beneath her eyes. Her breathing was labored, rasping deep in her throat and her head lay like a stone upon the pillow, yet she resisted Sarr's efforts to pry away the bloody apron she held pressed to her neck. 'No,' she whispered hoarsely. 'Not yet.'

'What happened?' said Sarr. 'Can you tell me?'

Her eyes rolled slowly around to look at them both, but she remained silent. At last, very feebly, she shook her head. Removing a hand from her throat, she pointed to the floor. 'Bwada,' she whispered.

Sarr, who had been leaning over the bed, straightened up, eyes blazing. 'That devil's down there now?' He started for the door.

Deborah grasped his wrist, holding him back. She managed to get out one word.

'Dead.'

We raced downstairs amp; down the cellar steps, Sarr grabbing the lantern from the upstairs hall. Even with the light it was hard to see down there, amp; the ceiling was so low he had to duck his head. Near the foot of the stairs, on the hard dirt floor, we saw an overturned milk pitcher, the lantern Deborah must have dropped, amp; what at first looked like a clump of matted grey fur. It was Bwada. She looked, in death, amazingly small. How could a creature that size have inspired such terror?