It was then she realized she'd forgotten the shoes. She'd left them, and the panties too, somewhere beneath those trees. They were probably still there.
There was no way out of it. She would simply have to go back uptown and get them. After all, they were Rochelle's shoes, not hers; Rochelle had probably paid forty or fifty dollars for them, and she wouldn't want to come back and find them gone.
The park was filled with joggers and radios and dogs that day, and angry voices arguing in Spanish. Blacks in headbands and earrings were playing conga drums by the fountain which, last night, had echoed to Stravinsky. She noticed Utter everywhere; she didn't remember its being there last night, but perhaps it had been too dark to see.
It took her almost an hour to find the clearing where she'd danced, and by then her legs were aching so much she wished she'd never come.
The clearing, seen in daylight, was a terrible shock. She'd remembered it as being like something in a dream, a vivid dream of green leaves and cool air and music beneath the stars, but by day the place appeared completely different. The trees were burnt and blackened along the inside of the ring, and the grass where she'd been dancing was lifeless, charred quite black in spots. The very air that had smelled so sweet last night now reeked of burning. What a shame, she said to herself as she looked around, there's just no place for nature in a city like New York. She looked at the trunk of the nearest tree; it was completely scorched, right up to the leaves. These trees are all going to die, she realized. It's those awful Puerto Ricans with their campfires.
She walked around the ring of trees several times and combed the blackened earth, but she never found the panties or the shoes.
Book Seven: The Altar
22. OBJECT OF GAME.
… In each round the player acting as Dhol must attempt to gain power points in the prescribed manner. When sufficient points have been obtained, players may proceed to next round.
Play continues until Final Round, when, of course, the object changes and the rule no longer applies.
Instructions to the Dynnod
July Seventeenth
Had a bad night last night. Even though I was tired I had trouble getting to sleep because my goddamned nose was so clogged. And no sooner had I finally drifted off than I was awakened again by a noise.
It sounded like something in the woods just outside this room. Smaller than a man but, from the sound of it, on two legs… It was shuffling through the dead leaves, kicking them around as if it didn't care who heard it. There was the snapping of branches amp; every so often a silence amp; then a bump, as if it were hopping over fallen logs. I stood in the dark listening to it, then crept to the window amp; looked out. Thought I saw some bushes moving, back there in the undergrowth, but it may have been the wind.
The sound moved farther away. I could hear, very faintly, the sucking sounds of feet slogging through the mud. Whatever it was must have been walking directly out into the deepest part of the woods, where the ground gets soft amp; swampy.
I stood by the window for almost an hour, amp; finally all was quiet except for the usual frogs. Had no intention of going out there with my flashlight in search of the intruder – that's strictly B-movie stuff, I'm much too sensible for that – though I wondered if I should call Sarr. By this time, though, the noise had stopped amp; whatever it was had obviously moved on. Besides, I tend to think Sarr'd have been angry if I'd awakened him amp; Deborah just because some stray dog had wandered past the farm.
Went to the windows on the other side of the room amp; listened for a while. Out in the yard everything was peaceful. It was extremely dark, amp; I could barely make out the shapes of the smokehouse amp; the barn, but I could hear those pie-plate scarecrows off in the cornfield, clanking whenever the breeze stirred them.
I stood at the window a long time; my nose probably looked cross-hatched from pressing against the screen. Then I lay in bed but couldn't fall asleep. Just as I was getting relaxed the sounds started again, much farther off now: a faint, monotonous hooting which may have been an owl, though somehow it didn't sound like an owl, or any other kind of animal, for that matter. And then, as if in answer, came another sound – high-pitched wails amp; caterwauls, from deep within the woods. Can't say whether the noise was human or animal. There were no actual words, of that I'm certain, but nevertheless there was the impression of singing. In a crazy, tuneless kind of way the sound seemed to carry the same solemn rhythms as the Poroths' prayers earlier that night.
The noise only lasted a minute or two, but I lay awake till the sky began to get lighter. Probably should have gotten through a little reading but was reluctant to turn on the lamp.
Must have been around noon when I got up. Took my towel amp; went up to the farmhouse for a bath. Didn't see Sarr amp; Deborah anywhere around amp; expected to find them in the kitchen eating lunch. But the house was empty, except for a few cats on the back porch, and the farm seemed very lonely.
Only then did I realize it was Sunday, amp; that the Poroths were off somewhere at worship. I'd been sure it was Saturday…
Interesting, how you can lose track of time out here. I suppose in some ways that's healthy, getting away from the pressures that were on me in New York, but it's also a little disorienting. At certain moments I feel positively adrift. I've been so used to living by the calendar amp; the clock.
Sat soaking in the tub till I heard the Poroths walking up the road; they'd been over at some farm near the Geisels' amp; had worked up a good appetite. So had I, even though I'd done nothing all morning but sleep. Over lunch (eggs with thick slabs of bacon, home fries, amp; blueberry pie) we talked about the wildlife around here, amp; I mentioned the noise last night. Sarr suggested that the shuffling sounds weren't necessarily related to the wailing. The former may have been those of a dog, he said; there are dozens in the area, amp; they love to prowl around at night. As for the wailing… well, he wasn't so sure. He thought it might have been an owl or – more likely, he said – a whippoorwill. Apparently whippoorwills can make some very weird sounds, amp; they tend to do so at night. (Lovecraft had them waiting by the window of a dying man amp; singing gleefully as they made off with his soul.)
I wonder, though, if the wailing might not have come from the same stray dog that shuffled past my window. I've heard recordings of wolf howls, amp; I've heard hounds baying at the moon, amp; both have the same element of worship in them that these sounds did.
I didn't broach the subject of the Poroths' coming in my room while I was gone, the misfiled book, etc. Just didn't quite know how to bring it up. Deborah's fairly easygoing, but you never know when Sarr's going to take offense at something.
After lunch he got up to start work, while I, as usual, lingered in the kitchen with Deborah. A minute or two later we heard him calling us from the yard, to come quick and see 'the sign from heaven.' Through the window we saw him pointing at the sky.
We hurried outside amp; looked up. There, way up in the clouds, a thin green line, like a living thread, was streaming across the sky. We watched as it passed slowly over the farm. Hard to tell how long it was; at one point it seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon.
'What is it?' Deborah asked.
'A sign from God,' said Sarr. But he had to have it both ways: 'and also a migration.'
He was right, the second time at least, because just then a few flecks of green drifted down toward us, carried on the breeze, amp; we saw that they were tiny moths the color of leaves. Above us the line was passing onward, snaking away into the distance, moving west. Eventually it was lost from sight.
Sarr was exultant – 'the Lord has vouchsafed us a vision, a promise of good harvests,' etc., etc. – but I found the sight oddly disturbing. Came back here to the room amp; looked it up in my Field Guide to the Insects. Apparently some butterflies – the monarchs, for one – actually do migrate, even across whole continents; but there was nothing in the book about these little green ones, amp; I couldn't even find out what they were.
Deborah finished stacking the dishes and wiped the crumbs from the table. Lifting the old pewter milk pitcher, she carried it into the hall, where she lit the little oil lamp that hung from a hook beside the stairway. With the pitcher in one hand and the lamp in the other, she started down the narrow steps.
