himself felt no particular reverence for them; what good had they ever done him? What good, for that matter, had they ever done her? Sometimes, in fact, it seemed as if this special knowledge was all but wasted on her; it apparently brought her not a moment's pleasure. She was like one who, shown a magic window to the future, yawns and looks away. Throughout her life she'd seen things, heard things, felt things coming – bitter winters, summer droughts, births and deaths and storms – but none of them had ever seemed to matter. Nothing had commanded her attention, nothing moved her: nothing, at least, within the bounds of the visible world. 'Tisn't right to get attached to things,' she liked to say. 'The Lord don't mean for us to love one another too much.'
She had baffled him even in the early days, before his father's death. There'd been times when she appeared to lead an almost secretive existence apart from the family, nor had she ever shown the slightest interest in its affairs. She had shared none of her husband's devotion to business, the doings of the town, the rise and fall of others' crops or the fortunes of his own beloved store, the buying and selling of grain and supplies, the faithful nightly entries in the ledger, the bedside prayers for guidance as he balanced his obligations to God and the community with the same care he brought to balancing his books. Instead, even then, she'd been prone to moods of distance and distraction, as if listening for faraway voices or preoccupied by some half-remembered dream.
It had been clear, even then, that the Brethren felt uneasy in her presence, though they were loud in the praise of her piety. Many of them still clearly regarded her as something of an oracle, and she was popularly reputed to have second sight. As to the actual extent of her powers, Poroth himself couldn't say; he only knew that he had inherited no such powers himself – for which he supposed he was glad. Still, watching her as she stood there in the darkness, her face, as always, turned away from him and the moonlight so cold on her hair, he found himself recalling all the things this night represented and longing for some small token of encouragement from her, some word of benediction.
But that, he knew, would have to come from somewhere else.
Nor was it long in coming. The others, he saw now, had fallen silent. They were watching a grey-haired woman, Sister Corah Geisel, who stood at the head of the table. Her hands held something out of sight.
'We're plain folks,' she began, gazing into the familiar faces around her. 'And I'm no good at speechmaking. You all know that this farm's been standing empty for too many years, ever since Andy Baber gave up working the land, and so we're all real glad to see it under cultivation again. But probably no one's half as glad as we are, Matthew and me. You see, livin' where we do, just over on the next road, we've always felt kind of on the edge of things out here, and. .. well, it's good to have some company again!' The others laughed and nodded. 'So, bein' as we're their closest neighbors, and since there's no one likelier to do them this service, we wanted Sarr and Deborah here to have our chaplet.' She held up a dried and withered garland of corn: two ears, the husks, and a shaggy mass of leaves. 'It's from a good crop – the Lord was bountiful last summer -and you all know it just wouldn't be right to plant without one. We're hopin' it'll get these young people off to a proper start.' Solemn as if she were crowning a queen, she placed the garland upon the uppermost point of the star-shaped loaf.
Faces turned toward him expectantly, his mother's among them; Poroth realized he would have to say something. He cleared his throat. 'Brother Matthew and Sister Corah do us a real honor, and I know the Lord'll bless them for their neighborliness. We give thanks for the bread we're about to eat, and thanks for those who prepared it. It's made from store-bought cornmeal, but next year, thanks to you good folks, we'll be using our own.'
'And next year we'll be planting on time!' Deborah had added that. She'd replaced Sister Corah at the head of the table and stood clutching a long, serrated bread knife, its blade gleaming redly in the firelight. The brightness was reflected in her eyes.
'And now,' he said quickly, 'let us bow our heads together in silent prayer.' He stood biting his lips, eyes closed, but the only sound he heard was one of the children driving some predator from the corn seed.
At last he looked up. He had been distracted, annoyed at his wife; there had been no prayer in his heart. He wondered if somehow the others had seen, but they were staring pensively at the cottonbread as if lost in recollection. Only Deborah herself stood watching him now – and, just beyond the firelight, seven pairs of wide unwinking eyes. He hadn't noticed them till this moment.
'How did they get out?' he whispered, nodding toward the cats as he moved beside his wife.
She shrugged. 'I never locked 'em up.'
'Of all the dumb-' Once more he dropped his voice. 'You know how Brother Joram feels.'
'Oh, honey, don't be angry with me. Tisn't anything important. Joram will just have to watch his step.' She reached once more for the knife. 'Are we ready?'
He nodded curtly. 'Ready.'
Metal flashed. She brought up her hand and, with a smooth stroke, sliced off the topmost point of the star. It remained lying before them, still decorated by the cuttings from last year's crop.
Just beyond the firelight the seven pairs of eyes followed every movement, missing nothing. Silent as shadows, two of the animals' rose and padded back to the house. The others crouched nearer the flames, purring softly.
Corn fragrance hung above the table, reminding those assembled of their empty bellies. With the first clean slice the spell that held them had been dissipated, replaced by simple hunger. They murmured in anticipation.
'Brothers, sisters,' said Poroth gravely, 'let us break bread.'
The command was, this time, a literal one. Crowded around the bread loaf, the celebrants broke chunks off with their hands. They were polite, even deferential; the pieces they took were not large. Still, the star's smooth contours soon looked ragged, and before long, limbs devoured, it had been reduced to a shapeless yellow mass. The severed portion, a triangle nearly as large as a kite, was brought past the fire to the children, who greeted it with shouts of pleasure. It had been garnished with extra sweetmeats, including three plump candied crab apples and a slice of glazed peach; they fell upon it eagerly. The garland of corn had been removed beforehand and left in a prominent place at the head of the table, where it presided over the destruction of the loaf.
Like corn bread it was dry, crumbly, and provoked an immediate thirst. Cups were handed around; the thermos jugs were emptied, disgorging strong hot coffee brewed with chocolate. Older children trooped forward for their share; the younger ones sang planting songs, or dozed, or fought over the sweetmeats. Men were lying full- length on the grass; benches were not part of this occasion. Some of the married couples sat together in the darkness, washing down the last of the bread while they searched the zenith for meteors; others remained standing, sipping their coffee as they gazed dreamily into the flames. In the warm reddish light their features were drained of detail, taking on the ageless look of masks. Here and there a lightning bug glowed and dimmed above the lawn, and in the sky beyond the cornfield the Sickle rolled serenely toward the western horizon. Children chased a buzzing June bug from the bag of seed; overhead Draco and the Queen wheeled in an endless chase around the pole star, the Dragon's tail directly overhead. In its tip shone Thuban, pole star of the ancients, once a herdsman's beacon and the light to which the pyramids aspired, stony angles pointing toward its gleam. Since that hour five thousand years had flashed and died like sparks; the heavens had shifted. But not until this present spring had the world really changed.
At night the city seemed immense. The sidewalks looked as wide as streets, the streets like highways; in the absence of traffic the avenue resembled a dim, empty arena, its spectators all gone home. Cars passed only at intervals now, in groups of two or three, and could be heard from blocks away. Carol's voice sounded loud amid the silence.
'Jeremy, I can't keep up with you!'
'Sorry,' he said. 'I guess I'm still upset about that bag.'
The two of them were walking north toward Chelsea, their footsteps slapping heavily against the pavement. Freirs no longer had his book bag. Earlier that evening they had stopped to eat in a crowded little Italian restaurant on Sullivan Street, Freirs slipping the bag beneath his chair, and later when he'd reached for it, it had been gone – stolen, most likely, though Freirs still clung to the hope that it had been taken by accident and might eventually be returned; it had contained nothing but books and student papers.
The loss of the bag had spoiled what had been, until then, a happy evening, though for Carol the incident was already receding into the haze of the past. The two of them had shared a bottle of chianti over dinner; she'd had nothing to eat since her afternoon break, and that first glass had immediately gone to her head. Later, after coffee, he'd convinced her to join him in a brandy. It had never taken much to get her drunk, and tonight she'd been especially susceptible. Despite the coffee, she was beginning to feel drowsy and, in her imagination, was already staggering into bed and pressing her body in sleep against the cool sheets. She could think about the day's events tomorrow morning.
