Ceremonies

of children's outdoor toys, junked auto bodies, and whimsical lawn decorations that Freirs had seen in front of other rural homes he'd passed today. Many of the houses were bordered by plots of land in earthen rows, dotted here and there with little shoots of green. Children tended garden beside their elders; they waved to Poroth as he went by, eyeing Freirs uneasily. A house was under construction, bearded men clinging to the framework like sailors in the rigging of a ship. They, too, waved, their faces impassive.

'I see there's no restriction against working on Sunday,' said Freirs.

'Far from it. We believe that labor's holy, and all days are sanctified by it. 'For thou shall eat the labor of thine hands: happy shalt thou be, and it shall be well with thee.'

'Amen,' Freirs said automatically, though Bible talk merely bored him, like words from a foreign text that had lost, in translation, some essential meaning. But at least he'd found a reason for the state of Poroth's clothes; every sweat ring was presumably a badge of honor.

They had been following the road over a slight rise of land, Poroth gunning the motor to maintain their speed. Now, on the farther side, they passed a sprawling red farmhouse and a barn that looked pegged to the earth by the broad silo beside it. Cattle grazed up and down the slope.

'Prosperous-looking place,' said Freirs.

'Verdock's dairy,' said Poroth. 'More relations. Lise Verdock is my father's sister.'

The cattle all faced the same direction, as if in prayer. A few were moving idly among the others in what seemed slow motion; the rest were as immobile as creatures on a billboard. Freirs, smelling grass and manure, breathed deeply. This stuff was supposed to save him.

'They stand tail to the wind,' Poroth was saying, 'so when they all look east like that, it means good weather.' He nodded toward a more imposing house beyond the dairy farm, at the top of a long tree-lined drive. 'Sturtevant,' he said. 'Brother Joram has considerable influence in these parts.'

'And does your father have a farm out here too?'

'No, he died ten years ago this fall. And he was never a farmer; he ran the Co-operative. So did his father and his father. Now the Steeglers run it – Brother Bert and Sister Amelia. Bert's mother was a Stoudemire, which makes him… let's see, a third cousin once or twice removed.' He grinned. 'See, it gets complicated.'

'Maybe I should just regard everybody as one big happy family.'

Poroth seemed to consider this a moment. 'Yes,' he said at last. 'Yes, happy.' He nodded, though it seemed as much to himself as to Freirs.

Freirs watched the scenery roll by, the dark fields corduroyed by rows of early corn. So Poroth was taking to the land again after generations in town. That made him, in a way, as unfamiliar with farming as Freirs was himself. It was somehow good to hear.

They turned right and continued downhill, a shade more steeply now. At the bottom, Poroth swung the truck abruptly to the left, the road following a shady, swiftly flowing stream half hidden from view by trees along its banks. Through the open window Freirs could hear the contented percolation of the water as it passed among the rocks with a sound like something singing to itself.

'Wasakeague Brook,' said Poroth, raising his voice to be heard. 'A branch of it runs past our land.'

They kept to the brook as it wound by straggly orchards, cornfields, and an occasional ancient-looking farmhouse, the sort where strangers knocked on wintry nights and fires blazed within. It felt like a scene in some book from his childhood. 'Boy,' said Freirs, 'I feel as if New York's a thousand miles away.'

Poroth eyed him quizzically. 'And is that a good feeling or a bad one?'

'Good… I think.' Freirs smiled. 'I'll let you know at the end of the day.'

The road cut through a stand of beech and cottonwood. Branches snapped against the truck's hood; leaves flattened themselves against the windshield. Freirs moved back from the window as the foliage rushed past.

'As for me,' Poroth said suddenly, 'a thousand miles away's exactly where I like it.' He sounded like a man with something to get off his chest. 'Even two thousand would suit me just fine.'

'Oh?' Freirs was still concentrating on the flashing branches. 'Wouldn't that make getting in and out a little inconvenient?'

'Yes, I imagine it would! But you see, I don't go in and out. I saw the place for the first time around ten years ago, and I've never set foot there since.'

Uh-oh. For a moment he'd forgotten where he was: among the apple-knockers. Garden State variety. These people voted against cities at election time and probably preached against them too.

'Sounds like you had a bad experience.'

'Memorable, anyway. I'll tell you about it sometime.'

'And how old were you then?'

'Let's see, I would've been… just seventeen.'

So Poroth was actually younger than he. Hard to believe – and hard to believe a young man of normal curiosity could grow up so close to New York without ever hopping on the bus to see what it was like.

'It's a big world out there, Sarr. Don't you think you ought to give it another chance?'

Poroth shook his head. 'I've already seen the world – as much as I want to see, anyway. I spent seven years out there. How many have you spent around here?'

'Why, none, of course,' said Freirs, with a shrug. 'It's hardly the same thing.'

'I disagree,' said Poroth. 'You've only seen one side of the world. I've seen both. But I'm home now, and it feels right.'

'Home for good?'

'Yes, sir! I intend to die right here in Hunterdon County.'

'And Deborah,' Freirs said carefully, 'does she feel the same?' He already suspected that she didn't.

'No, Deborah's a bit more… adventurous than I am. And not so quick to judge, I'll grant her that. She's visited the city a few times, and I can't pretend she shares my feelings about it.'

'I guess it was Deborah, then, who put the ad in the library.'

Poroth looked blank. 'What library?'

'The Voorhis, where I'm doing my research. That's where I saw your ad – on the bulletin board.'

Poroth took his eyes from the road and turned a suspicious glance on Freirs. 'You mean the notice that Deborah wrote out?'

'That's right. On some kind of recipe card, I think.'

He shook his head. 'Impossible. I put it up myself – at the bus depot over in Flemington. I wasn't sure, at first, that we'd want anyone from too far away.'

'You mean, from New York?'

'At the time, yes. You see, we'd never done this before – it seemed safer to start with someone who already knew the area. The ad was kind of an experiment. I figured someone passing through Fleming-ton might see it at the bus stop.' He paused. 'That's where I thought you'd seen it.'

'Nope. I'd never been to Flemington in my life, before today.' He was as much in the dark as Poroth but found something curiously enjoyable in the other's bewilderment. 'All I know is, I saw it in New York. I guess somebody just decided to move it.'

'Sure, but who?’

Freirs shrugged. 'Some do-gooder, maybe. Or maybe it was fate. Unless you've got a better idea.'

Poroth, staring distractedly down the road, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, said nothing.

He was still silent when, minutes later, the trees thinned out. Ahead of them the road forked to the right and led onto a crossing. Halfway up a hill above the opposite bank, guarded at the back by a line of aging cedars, stood a small stone cottage, squat, slate-roofed, and overgrown with vines. Battalions of flowers separated the house from the surrounding expanse of lawn. Additional rows had been planted in front, forming a series of terraced steps that led down to the stream.

Spanning the stream, and constructed of the same stone as the cottage, rose the arch of an old stone bridge only wide enough for one car to pass over at a time. Its railings were low and no doubt insubstantial, mere slats of wood; you'd hear them bend and crack before your car went off the edge, but they wouldn't keep you from falling. Freirs inadvertently held his breath as the truck rumbled across, but Poroth drove without pause or hesitation – perhaps, even, with a touch of bravado.

On the other side, unexpectedly, he slowed, following the road as it encircled the hill, the cottage from this vantage point looking like a kind of outpost meant to warn those farther inland of encroaching civilization. The