nights out here were damp, and his feet felt clammy. His skin, he noticed, was covered with mosquito bites; he itched all over as he slipped his robe back on. His eye fell on his wristwatch on the stand beside the bed. Just past midnight.
He shook his head and sat down on the bed. Of all the schoolboy stunts! he thought, wiping his feet off and scratching at his ankle. Whatever possessed me to -
He paused. Something odd had just occurred.
While he'd been sitting there, trying to reorient himself, he'd been half-consciously aware of the crickets in the yard outside. The regular cadence of their chirping had been soothing, like the sound of a well-oiled machine. It had been making him drowsy, in fact, lulling him to sleep.
But for a moment just now the crickets had seemed to miss a beat. They'd been singing steadily, ever since he'd left the farmhouse, yet all of a sudden they'd simply stopped, a break in the natural flow -and then moments later they'd begun again, only out of rhythm for a beat or two, as if an unseen hand had jarred the record.
Well, they were back on the beat now. It was nothing to worry about, probably something to do with a temperature change.
He turned back to preparations for bed: locked the door, put the Machen on the table, closed his journal for the night.
It was only when he'd opened the top drawer of the bureau to put the journal away that he saw the brightly colored greeting cards he'd shoved to the back and realized, with a sudden burst of sadness, that it had happened without his remembering it; the moment he'd dreaded had come and gone. It was his birthday.
And in her stone cottage on the hill above the stream, seated at her bedroom window with the moon swimming full above the hedges by the roadside and the Pictures scattered at her feet, Mrs Poroth, hearing the crickets break rhythm, looked down from the moon to the image of the yellow book, and from that to the one which lay beside it – a shapeless black scribble with a hint of stubby legs – and realized, at last, why the woman had come out today.
Book Four: The Dream
Think ye that the lot of them – the Worm, the Virgin, and the rest – are but Symbols of Corruption and Purity? Then think ye again…
Nicholas Keize, Beneath the Moss
July Third
Carol opened her eyes, shut them tighter against the brightness streaming through the unshaded window, then opened them again and stretched languorously. She had not slept well; bad dreams – or, rather, one bad dream – had troubled her throughout the night. Now she was glad to be awake. Yesterday the room had had a musty smell, but this morning it was filled with sunlight and the scent of things in bloom. From outside the window came the raucous cries of birds; aside from that the world was silent, no sound of breakfast dishes or of singing in the kitchen.
Dressing in jeans and a clean shirt and running a hand through her hair, she peered out the window. No one was about; the farm seemed deserted. Then she remembered: it was Sunday. The Poroths would be at services, at one of the Brethren's houses, and would probably be away till past noon.
Going downstairs, her footsteps on the wooden treads breaking the morning stillness, she saw, by the clock in the living room, that it was not yet eight. But perhaps the clock was wrong; she suddenly remembered that late last night she had heard it wind down. Or had that too been part of the dream?
Her eye fell on a portable radio standing by one of the kitchen shelves. Hoping it might give her the correct time, she switched it on. The sound of singing filled the room: a hymn, like the ones Sarr and Deborah had been singing last night, only here there were dozens of ecstatic voices backed by an organ. She stood listening to it a moment, then snapped it off. They reminded her, those voices, that she herself should be in church this morning. Well, she would make sure to drop in and say a prayer this afternoon, just as soon as she got back to the city. God would understand.
The silence in the kitchen was oddly oppressive, but outside the cries of the birds held a note of invitation. She pushed through the screen door and out onto the back porch. The sunlight was intense, and the land in back, stretching down toward the distant stream, looked beautiful, but there was a smell of dampness in the air. Two of the younger cats – an orange one and a tortoise-shell, she didn't know their names – lay washing themselves in a small patch of sunlight, but when she started down the back steps they both rose and trotted after her.
The grass was wet around her ankles as she strolled toward Freirs' outbuilding. She walked to the front and peered through the screen, a little nervous. Yes, there he was, a pale shape lying twisted in sleep on the bed. The shape stirred, and she saw, with embarrassment, that he was naked. Hastily she stepped back and began moving away, hoping he hadn't awakened and seen her.
She continued down to the stream. Schools of tiny silver fish darted back and forth in the shadows of the rocks. It looked so inviting that she could almost imagine herself going for a swim; she reminded herself that, after all, she hadn't bathed this morning. She would leave her clothing there on the rock and step gingerly into the water. It would be chilly, of course, as it climbed her legs. And perhaps while she was naked and so occupied, Jeremy would awaken and, walking silently down behind her, would surprise her, there in the warm sunlight. He would reach for her hand This was no way to behave on Sunday morning! Besides, she thought, the water's only a foot or two deep, and the bottom must be covered with sharp stones.
With a sigh she sat herself on the rock and gazed at the pine trees across the stream, trying to pretend the place felt holy. Jeremy could get up when he pleased.
Woke up later than I'd wanted to, feeling stiff amp; hung over. Carol amp; I went for a ride in Rosie's car, me at the wheel. Told her, as we drove, about its being my birthday; she was properly solicitous, I was gloomy. Telephoned Mom amp; Dad from a shopping center outside Flemington; they seemed worried about my allergy ('you mean they have seven cats?') amp; whether the seclusion's good for me.
After lunch in Flemington, Carol insisted on buying me a small birthday cake to take back with us. Spent the afternoon driving through the countryside, past endless miles of farmland, shopping malls, new suburban tracts. This area is changing fast.
Had a somewhat unpleasant encounter in town…
Gilead wore a soberly festive air as they drove up to the crossroads. A dozen cars, most of them black and all of them at least a decade old, were parked along the main street, and there were dark-clothed figures talking in small groups on the open land that adjoined the general store. Several turned with undisguised curiosity as the car approached, but their faces seemed friendly enough.
'Let's stop,' said Freirs, pulling up beside the store. 'I want to buy more bug spray.'
The front door was open now, barrels of goods crowding the porch. 'This place is a co-operative, you know,' Freirs whispered as they walked past boxes of cutlery and rolling pins. 'All the Brethren own it and all share in the profits. Karl Marx would have been pleased.' After so much time on the road, it took Carol a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the store's dim light. She looked for the woman she'd talked to yesterday, but there seemed to be no one behind the counter. Three men were standing near the back, by a passage that led to the grain warehouse. All of them had beards that curved from ear to ear; all were gaunt and solemn-looking, with faces that looked as if they'd been carved out of the same unyielding wood. They had been talking about someone with a drinking problem – 'a scandal to the community,' one of them was saying, 'and I hear tell his boy Orin's a-takin' after him' – but they fell silent when Freirs and Carol entered. The man in the middle turned toward them.
'And what might you be wantin'?' he said. There was a wariness in his voice, but Freirs appeared not to notice.
'I need a can of insect spray,' he said. 'Something good and powerful.'
The other stared at him a moment, as if he'd recognized Freirs and was trying to recall where. Suddenly he nodded. 'Ah, yes, well, you would be havin' some trouble with the bugs, now, wouldn't you? I mean, 'tis that time o' year.' Carol saw him dart a quick glance to the others. 'Now let me see what I can rustle up for you.'
He led Freirs over to an aisle along the wall, and the two of them disappeared behind a pegboard; Carol heard them talking and the clink of cans. She was left facing the other two and feeling awkward. Awkward for them too, apparently – they stared silently at the floor, not even acknowledging her presence.
Suddenly she heard feet tramping up the wooden porch behind her. In the doorway a heavy-set figure stood silhouetted against the light.
'Steegler, if you tell me you've no more sandpaper,' he called out,
