Ceremonies

'About time they got the hang of it.'

'And look at this.' Leaning into the coop and digging beneath the one surviving hen from the previous flock, who scattered, squawking, as he reached toward her, Poroth pulled out another egg.

'See? The calcium's working! This one's back to normal.'

Indeed, when held up to the light, the egg seemed plump and healthy and the shell hard.

'A welcome sight,' said Freirs. 'I've missed my morning omelets.'

'Yes,' said Poroth, 'I have too.' He was staring pensively at the egg.

'Should we take them up to the house?'

'Those two,' said Poroth, indicating the pair at his feet, 'but not this. It's already fertilized – I just felt it tremble in my hand. Here, feel.' Without warning he thrust it into Freirs' unwilling hand.

Freirs hefted it gingerly, thinking of Lotte Sturtevant's stomach. The egg was wanner than he'd expected. Soft, impatient movements came from within it. Hurriedly he returned it to the other, who slipped it back into the eldest hen's nest.

'We'll let her sit on it awhile,' said Poroth, 'and soon we'll have ourselves another bird.'

Each with an egg, the two strolled toward the farmhouse, their spirits high. Nature, in the end, would not be denied; the sun was out, the corn was ripening, and the hens were laying again.

For several minutes after the two figures had gone, the old bird continued to pace round and round in the dust and odor of the coop, at last settling herself back onto the remaining egg. The barn was still. Shafts of sunlight crept steadily across the wooden floor; a trio of bluebottles buzzed in contentment.

Suddenly she jerked her head erect, her round eyes staring wide. With a flurry of feathers she hopped off the nest and scrambled to the far corner of the coop, where she stood quivering against the wire, claws raking the straw.

Behind her, in the filthy down-lined nest, the egg twitched, rocked back and forth, and jerked to a series of invisible blows, looking more like a living thing than the container of one. A split appeared in the side. The four new hens and the rooster left their perches and gathered to watch, cocking their heads and twitching as a dark, jagged hole appeared in the side of the egg and a tiny pink arm slipped through. At last a head appeared, and as the squawking of the adult birds rose higher, the child hatched, scattering bits of shattered eggshell.

With frenzied cries, the surrounding chickens pecked to death the glistening pink reptilian thing that emerged.

The house, by this time, had a kind of shabby hominess for Freirs, as if the depressions in the sofa in the living room had come from him, the worn spots on the wooden armrests from his hands. He sat back in the rocker that stood near the fireplace and waited idly for lunch to be ready. Deborah had returned; he could hear her now in the kitchen but didn't have the energy to get up and go in.

Poroth emerged from the cellar, a look of satisfaction on his face. He joined Freirs in the living room, ducking his head as he passed through the doorway.

'Well,' he said, 'we've made a new start. By next week I'll bet the whole shelf s full of eggs again.' He stood thinking, arm propped on the mantel. 'And maybe by fall we'll have enough birds to eat.'

Freirs imagined living beings trapped inside smothering shells, bent almost double with beaks between legs, struggling insanely to burst free. 'You know,' he said, 'until today I never held a fertilized egg, and I'm not sure I ever want to hold one again. It felt really weird. Reminded me of those earth tremors we had on Sunday.'

Poroth smiled. 'A hole milder, surely.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Freirs. 'It's all a matter of scale. If that egg were the size of the earth, those movements we felt would have been worse than any quake in history.'

'You may have a point.' Rubbing his chin, Poroth stared speculatively at the books occupying the lower half of the writing desk in the corner. 'Seems to me I've heard something like that before – the idea that the earth is one big egg. 'Twas a tale my mother told me when I was small. A kind of fairy tale. Or maybe it was just a dream she'd had.'

'They say that myths and fairy tales are public dreams.'

'Well, maybe so. In this one, I recall, a girl believes the earth is a dragon's egg – a dragon's egg just waiting to be hatched. 'Tis all symbolic, of course. A parable, just like in the Bible.'

'Yes, I can see that,' said Freirs. 'And then what happens?' The other shrugged resignedly. 'What else? The world ends with the roar of a dragon.'

Just beyond the doorway of the kitchen, Deborah added a dash more pepper to the pork patties sizzling on the gas range, then threw in another pinch of salt. Two spoonfuls of flour went into the mix, followed by a fresh patty glistening here and there with fat. It hissed as it settled in the pan, scattering drops of burning grease upon her fingers. She did not flinch. Taking an onion from the wicker basket on the counter, she carefully peeled off the larger leaves and dropped them in. There were no tears.

In a shallow bowl she mixed the salad dressing, compounded of oil, lemon juice, vinegar, and garlic. Tasting the result from a finger dipped into it, she picked up the pepper mill once more and gave it three firm shakes over the mixture, then paused and tilted her head, almost catlike now, listening. Outside, the stillness of the yard was broken by the distant crowing of a rooster. From the next room came the sound of the two men in earnest conversation.

Silently she crouched, reached beneath the counter, and drew forth a squat silver can. Prying off the heavy plastic top, she poured a measured amount of pale liquid into a bowl, adding a dash more of the liquid directly onto the sizzling meat. It smoked fiercely for a moment, bubbling with a new and shriller noise. Quickly pressing back the top, she slipped the can back into its hiding place, so that no one except her could possibly have seen the directions on it, or the brand name, or the warning, For Outdoor Use Only.

Only four cats are left from the original seven, yet none of these survivors seem to feel the slightest sense of loss. Played with them for a while after lunch – or, rather, watched them chase insects, climb trees, doze in the sun. Spectator sport.

Speaking of which, finally got around to going 'birding,' something I'd been meaning to do ever since I got here. Armed myself with Peterson guide amp; marched off into the fields. Saw a redwing blackbird, three starlings, amp; what may have been a grackle, then called it a day. Whole thing seems as pointless as tallying out-of-state license plates on a road trip.

Came back in here, opened my notebook, amp; sat down to reread 'Supernatural Horror in Literature' in the Lovecraft collection. Sort of a Poetics of the Horror Tale, amp; a marvelous guide; I've been using it as a summer reading list, trying to cover the material Lovecraft recommends. But it worries me to see how little I've actually accomplished this summer, and how far I still have to go. So many obscure authors I couldn't find at Voorhis, so many books I've never even heard of… Left me feeling depressed amp; tired. Took a nap for the rest of the afternoon.

Deborah looked much better at dinner. Though she still did little talking, her features were more animated, she had good color – she's been spending time berry-picking in the woods, she says – amp; she seemed energetic amp; cheerful. Sarr, by contrast, was moody again. He picked at his food (beef stew, amp; like the pork at lunch, actually quite poor, though I was too polite to say anything) amp; kept asking her why she didn't eat more. When she brought out the blueberry pie he flatly declined to have any. 'How do I know the berries aren't poison?' he demanded. Both Deborah amp; I were scandalized that he'd even think such a thing, amp; I could see that, after all her work, the poor girl was very upset, so I had a huge extra slice. Deborah ate a lot too, no doubt just to show Sarr up.

Sometimes I stay with them amp; talk, but didn't want to hang around tonight; can't get used to the changes in Sarr. He barely said a civil thing all evening. One exception, though: he told me he'd found out, in answer to my question, that there never were any McKinneys. Seems McKinney's Neck is actually taken from some old Indian word.

Felt like rain when I came back out here; clouds massing in the night sky amp; the woods echoing with thunder. Little Absolom Troet seemed to smile at me from his photo when I turned on the light, as if glad to have me back.

Still no rain. Read most of John Christopher's The Possessors. Pretty effective, drawing horror from the most fundamental question of human relations: How can we know that the person next to us is as human as we are? Then played a little game with myself for most of the evening, until I Jesus! I just had one hell of a shock. While writing the above I heard a soft tapping, like nervous fingers drumming on a table, amp; discovered an enormous