Ceremonies

Brethren, who saw all forms of advertising as devil's work.

And now – crack! – was come the fruit of her endeavors. A stranger was due to enter their midst, an outsider; someone ignorant of their beliefs who could have but little sympathy for their chosen way of life. True, the man had seemed polite enough, but his

I godlessness was obvious in his every word, and he'd brought with him a reek of corruption from the city he was so determined to flee. He had already asked too many questions; he had already made too many jests. Of course, he'd sounded educated, in what passed for education among the worldly – was even a teacher, he had claimed -and doubtless it would be good for Deborah to have someone else to talk to. But – crack! – who could say where that might lead? Deborah was a fine God-fearing woman, but sometimes the woman in her nature seemed stronger than the fear of God. She was modest one moment, hot-blooded the next; there was no telling what she might do. What was it the prophet had warned? The heart is deceitful above all things…

Crack!

Deborah was inclined to wander from the path, that much he knew, and this smooth-talking teacher might prove a most dangerous influence. Claimed he'd spend the summer among his books… The thought made Poroth downright uneasy. Oh, he'd studied books himself once, far more than the Brethren would have wished, and he still owned a few. He had felt the magic in them, the lure of worldly knowledge, new notions, sweet-sounding words. But with the Lord's help he had put such things behind him; the Good Book was enough for any man. The rest were just invitations to idleness -and idleness was a sin that led to others.

Yes, the stranger would have to be watched; there was no telling what mischief he might get into. He had all but admitted, back in the truck, that he made it a practice to yield to whatever temptations lay before him. As if his stomach hadn't already revealed as much! And the way he'd looked at Deborah…

Crack!

With a groan the tree splintered and came crashing to the earth.

The old truck bounced noisily toward town, Geisel navigating her like a ship in a storm. He drove slowly, with his head thrust well forward, stretching his long, lined neck as he squinted at the road.

'Well, Mr Freirs,' he said at last, turning to face him, 'what do you think of our little town?'

Freirs' mind had been on Deborah. Had it been his imagination, or had she really been naked beneath that dress? And what if she'd known he could see? With a sigh he turned to Geisel. Freirs had been deliberately avoiding conversation with him lest the old man turn the truck over in a ditch while doing exactly what he was doing now, looking away from the road. Just his luck to die here in the wilderness with some old farmer he didn't even know.

'It is a little town,' he said finally, keeping his own eyes straight ahead. Maybe Geisel would take the hint. 'I was surprised, in fact, how tiny it really is. There's nothing in it but one big general store.'

Geisel seemed to see that as a compliment. 'Yes, sir, all a man needs is right to hand. Mind you, there's also the Bible school across the street, where they keep the town records. And don't be forgetting the cemetery.'

'I saw it,' said Freirs. 'Some nice old tombstones there.'

The old man smiled. 'Been lookin' at our ancestors, have you?'

'A few, anyway. It's interesting to see the local names.'

The other gave a genial nod. 'Yep, that's where they all end up around here. You stay long enough, you'll end up there, too.'

Freirs laughed uneasily. 'Not that long, I hope! I'll only be here for the summer.'

'I know,' said Geisel. 'Young Brother Sarr's gone and fixed the place up real nice. You should have yourself a mighty comfortable time. I saw how he and Sister Deborah even went and put in electricity.'

'I guess that's pretty unusual around here, isn't it?'

The old man scratched his head. 'Well, none of as have it. Fact is, some of the others here in town, some of the oW-timers' – he said this with a hint of smile – 'they've had their differences with the Poroths and their ways. They say the pair of them are too lax on some points.'

Deborah without her panties, strawberry douche in the medicine chest. Maybe the Brethren, too, had their generation gap. 'And do you agree?'

'No, sir, not me. Brother Sarr and Sister Deborah are neighbors of ours, and we stick by 'em. They're good God-fearing folks, you'll find out quick enough. See, that's the strength of our order. It don't look that way to outsiders, maybe, but we like to think we've got room for differences of opinion. The Lord wants for us to live His way, right enough, but He knows we're all just children, and – well, He's always been good to us.'

He lapsed into silence. They were nearing the stream now, the dirt road well behind them. Freirs was pleased to see that he already had a sense of the distances involved, if not of the actual twisting route they'd been following. The hedgerow-bordered lanes and snug farmhouses seemed almost familiar, viewed in reverse from his trip out, and the countryside somehow smaller, like a room remembered from childhood that one visits after the passage of years.

The road was winding gradually downhill. They rounded a wall of boxwood and abruptly Freirs saw, on the slope to the left, the small stone cottage where Poroth's mother lived.

'Now there,' he said, 'is one beautiful little place.' He peered at the windows as the truck moved past but saw no face this time. 'They don't build 'em like that nowadays.'

'That house is' – Geisel did some figuring – 'more than a hundred and sixty years old. It's always belonged to the Troets.'

T thought Mrs Poroth lived there now.'

'Yes, but she's one of them.'

'Oh, that's right. Sarr mentioned it.'

'Those Troets.' Geisel shook his head. 'They never were much for breeding, and most of the line's kind of died out over the years.'

Gnarled hands gripping the wheel, he brought the truck around the base of the hill and onto the narrow stone bridge, which he took far more slowly than Poroth had. Freirs waited till they were across before he spoke again.

'I saw their monument back in the cemetery, a big granite thing. Sarr said they died in some kind of fire.'

'Yes, sir. Back in the 1870s, it was. Even before my time.' He didn't smile. 'Wiped out one whole branch of the family.'

Freirs tried, in vain, to imagine how all those people could have perished in a single fire. It must have been at night… But could anyone sleep that soundly? Mother, father, kids? Blackened bodies in the ashes. 'It's strange,' he said, 'in that list of names, I remember one of them didn't have a date of death.'

The old man rubbed his chin. 'Well, you see, young Absolom Troet, he didn't die in the fire. Fact is, some folks say 'twas him that set it.'

'What? You mean he killed his own family?'

Geisel shrugged. 'Well, that Absolom, he was a queer one, so folks used to say. 'Twas quite a ways before my time, of course, and I ain't so sure of the details. But my old grandma, God rest her, she remembered him. Grew up with him, in fact. She said he was as sweet as can be, to look at him, with a face just like a baby. A likely little feller too, God-fearing as the next… And then one day, just about Christmastime, it was, seems he goes off somewhere, and when he comes back home he ain't quite right in the head. He was always up to some sort of mischief after that. Regular little devil!'

The wind is blowing steadily now, with the first hint of a chill. The sun is just a dirt-brown smear above the Jersey shore. Top halves of the taller buildings remain illuminated, glowing like pillars of fire. The lower parts are plunged in shadow.

The old man is tired, but at last his walk is ended. He has come to an area of tenements, ancient warehouses, and shops with foreign names. In the distance the oily river churns. He has reached his goal.

The cathedral looms above him, grey with soot. Around the great bronze doors at the top of the steps, saints and demons stand awaiting his arrival. On each of the twin towers a cross catches the waning sunlight.

White birds, the Gheelo, shriek high overhead. Their shadows vanish as the light fades, and the crosses retreat into gloom. The sky is dark as ashes.

Below his feet the pavement vibrates to the thunder of a subway. The stones of the cathedral tremble. Tucking the umbrella beneath his arm and whispering the Third Name, he starts up the steps.