something primeval-looking, serpentine, coiled with its tail in its mouth.
The design is ready. He climbs the steps and switches off the light. Now the only illumination in the room comes from the mouth of the furnace, aglow with dragon fire.
Standing just outside the chalk line, he shrugs off the loose-fitting shirt and drops his baggy pants. Naked, he steps into the circle, his soft pink body hairless as a baby's. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he begins to dance.
His movements are awkward at first, then more certain. Suddenly he flings his arms wide and hops from foot to foot in an ever more complicated rhythm. From his toothless mouth comes a low ecstatic crooning and a string of unintelligible words.
'Da'moghu… riya moghu… riya daek… '
Round and round he dances, eyes shut tight, hands weaving ancient shapes above his head. Faster and faster move his fingers and his feet, faster comes the stream of words. Sheened in sweat, his body glows eerily in the flickering blue light that bathes the room. He bows, he leaps, he spins, pirouetting girlishly but turning ever faster till he's whirling like a dervish, his tiny withered penis flopping up and down, his plump breasts sagging and jiggling like a woman's. The crooning grows in volume, turns into a ululation, then a high-pitched wail.
'Riya moghu… davoola… DA'FAE!'
And suddenly with a cry it is over. The vision has come. Exhausted, he sinks to the floor and lies flat on his back with his head in the center of the circle, body still trembling, limbs still twitching from the dance. His eyes, opening, roll back to stare at the fire, but he sees far more. He sees all that he has to.
The Dhol has come at last. It is out there now. And it is free.
July Sixteenth
Sun's been warm today. Blue sky, fleecy clouds, refreshing summer breeze, all that rot. The sort of day that's supposed to make you feel good to be alive. Would have been perfect except for the bugs.
Got up reasonably early. Butterflies on lawn, cats playing tag. Bwada never came back, which is also nice. Sarr repairing leaks in the barn roof amp; knocking down nests of caterpillars from beneath the eaves; Deborah weeding in her garden, pruning rosebushes, hanging out sheets to dry. They do keep busy, these rural types.
And I should keep busy too. I've been here three weeks now amp; have yet to write a word on the dissertation. Slipping in my exercises, too. Didn't do them yesterday, and haven't done today's yet, either.
God, three weeks! Hard to believe. Even out here the time goes fast, when you stand back amp; look. Half of July's already gone, amp; I can almost feel August's hot breath on the back of my neck, something huge amp; angry waiting for me beyond the next hill…
From his rooftop, with the hot afternoon breeze at his back, he surveys the great doomed city spread before him in the sun. He hears, floating up to him, the hum of traffic, people's voices, the hiss of wind from off the Hudson. Children's cries reach him from the playground on the next block; he leans over the wall for a better view. Two of them down there are fighting. The larger boy has the smaller one down and is kneeling upon the other's shoulders, slapping at the face below him, slapping, slapping…
Elbows resting on the parapet, head resting on his hands, the Old One smiles as he waits for the tears to start. There; he has seen the gleam. His smile widens, spreads across his face. For a moment, as a wisp of cloud obscures the sun, the shadows change, his skin looks chalky pale, and he becomes a thing of stone, a gargoyle.
The gargoyle moves, dissolves. He raises his gaze from the playground to the dark green line that slices through the center of the city.
He has business there tonight – he and the woman. He is prepared. She will be, too, when the time comes: for tonight she'll wear the second victim's dress.
Last night was his turn to dance.
Tonight will be the woman's.
Night, now, amp; tired. Spent a lot of time in the sun this afternoon with Arthur Gordon Pym. The flies made it pretty hard to concentrate, but figured I'd get myself a tan. Probably have a good one now. (Hard to tell by looking in the mirror, though; light's too dim.)
But it suddenly occurs to me that I'm not going to be seeing anyone for a long time anyway, except the Poroths, so what the hell do I care how I look? Deborah had her chance; no sense trying to look good for her anymore.
No moon tonight, which works to the advantage of the stars.
One thing rather troubling: When I came back here after dinner I felt like reading something light, to counterbalance all the claustrophobic horrors of the Poe book with its pirates amp; corpses amp; cannibals – so I reached for the Saki collection.
Now I know I shelved that damned book under H.H. Munro, where it belongs. I specifically remember doing it, amp; I'm equally sure it was that way last night, because it gave me A.N.L. Munby on one side with The Alabaster Hand amp; Oliver Onions on the other side with Widdershins, all three books in fancy old bindings amp; looking quite handsome together. I remember sitting here admiring them.
But the Saki wasn't there tonight. I found it under S.
It's just a little thing, of course. Utterly trivial. Nothing else in here is out of place, that I can see. Nothing's missing. But it means that somebody must have been in here today – somebody who went through my books (maybe my other things as well) amp;, not knowing Saki was Munro, misfiled it.
Can't believe it was Sarr or Deborah. They've always been respectful of my privacy here, and anyway, when could they have come in? I can't remember a time today (except dinner, of course) when I wasn't here, either in this room or right outside the door.
Oh, well, maybe I'm wrong; maybe the heat's getting to me. I suppose I might have stuck the book back in the wrong place myself, late last night when I was sleepy, or when I was working today.
Just to play safe, though, I'm going to start hiding this journal. There are too many things I wouldn't want either one of them to read – I mean, all those stupid daydreams about Deborah…
I can hear them at their prayers right now, over in the farmhouse; until just a few minutes ago they'd been singing hymns. Comforting, to hear sounds like that on a night as dark as this.
But when I think about them poking around in here amp; then not telling me, it gets my dander up.
Meant to write a letter to Carol tonight, after putting it off for several days, but now I'm just too tired. I'll probably have trouble getting to sleep, though; my eyes itch amp; I can't stop sniffing. Must be the dampness.
He was waiting for her at the subway stop in front of the Dakota, a picnic basket on the ground beside him. He brightened when he saw her. 'Carol,' he said, waving his hands for emphasis, 'you look like a dryad come to life.'
'A what?'
'A wood nymph, a tree maiden.'
She laughed. 'Thank you. I feel like I just stepped out of 'La Sylphide.' Or maybe the Saint Patrick's Day parade!'
She was all in green tonight – in that beautiful green dress he had bought her, beautiful even if the fit was a little loose and the hem a little too high, with green shoes she'd discovered in Rochelle's closet, and even a green scarf at her throat. The scarf she had thought of herself, just before leaving the apartment, knowing that Rosie would be pleased. She was beginning to anticipate his taste.
Of course, she had white on underneath. But even the most puritanical man in the world couldn't object to that; absolutely nothing showed through the tightly woven material of the dress. In fact, she had been a bit daring tonight and hadn't even put on a bra; it was all in perfectly good taste, of course, it wasn't as if anyone could actually see anything, but when she breathed she could feel the dress rub ever so lightly against her nipples, so that they stood out against the cloth. She had never walked around this way before. It felt good, now that she'd done it. It felt good to know that men would be watching her, wanting her, good to know that she was desirable to them. Slowly but surely, she told herself, I'm coming along…
'Come,' he said,*we want to get a good seat.' He reached for her hand. He had already picked up the basket, an old-fashioned wicker one with a blanket folded over the top and the handle of his umbrella peeping out in front. Together they crossed the street to the park.
Crowds of people were already streaming in the same direction, moving up the paths toward the Great Lawn. Most of them, like Rosie, were carrying baskets or tote bags or blanket rolls.
