coarse and soft, perhaps having had all the cohesion baked out of it by ten million years of Arizona sun. We dug like slaves, like ants, like machines, thrust and heave, thrust and heave, thrust and heave, each of us making his own little pit and then joining the three pits. Occasionally we intruded on someone else’s work area; once Eli nearly speared my bare foot with his pick. But we got the job done. At length a rough trench, perhaps seven feet long, three feet wide, four feet deep, lay open before us. “It is sufficient,” said Frater Franz. Gasping, sweat-shiny, dizzied, we threw down our tools and stepped back. I was at the edge of exhaustion and could barely remain standing. An attack of dry heaves threatened me; I fought it and converted it, absurdly, into hiccups. Frater Antony said, “Place the dead man in the ground.” Just like that? No coffin, no covering at all? Dirt in the face? Dust to dust? It seemed that way. We found a final reservoir of energy and lifted Timothy, swung him out over our excavation, eased him down. He lay on his back, the ruined head •cradled on soft earth, the eyes — did they show a look of surprise? — staring up at us. Eli reached in, closed the eyes, turned Timothy’s head slightly to the side, a position more like that of sleep, a more comfortable way to spend one’s eternal rest. The four Keepers now took up stations at the four corners of the grave. Fraters Miklos, Franz, and Javier put their hands to their pendants and bowed their heads. Frater Antony, staring straight ahead, recited a brief service in that liquid, unintelligible language that the fraters use when talking to the priestesses (Aztec? Atlantean? The Cro-Magnon muttersprach?) , and, switching to Latin for the final phrases, spoke something which Eli told me later, confirming my own guess, was the text of the Ninth Mystery. Then he gestured to Eli and me to fill the grave. We seized our shovels and flung dirt. Farewell, Timothy! Golden scion of the Wasps, heir to eight generations of careful breeding! Who will have your trust funds, who will carry the family name onward? Dust to dust. A thin layer of Arizona sand now covering the burly frame. Like robots we toil, Timothy, and you disappear from view. As it was ordained in the beginning. As it was written in the Book of Skulls ten thousand years ago. “All regular activities are canceled this day,” said Frater Antony when the grave was filled and the earth had been tamped down. “We will spend today in meditation, taking no meals, devoting ourselves to. a contemplation of the Mysteries.” But there was more work for us before our contemplations could begin. We returned to the House of Skulls, intending first of all to bathe, and discovered Frater Leon and Frater Bernard in the hall outside Oliver’s room. Their faces were masks. They pointed within. Oliver lay sprawled face-up across his cot. Evidently he had borrowed a kitchen knife, and, surgeon that he never lived to be, he had done an extraordinary job on himself with it, belly and throat, nor had he spared even the traitor between his thighs. The incisions were deep and had been cut by a steady hand: disciplined to the end, rigid Oliver had slaughtered himself with a characteristic adherence to methodology. I could no more have endured finishing such a project, once I had begun it, than I could walk on moonbeams, but Oliver always had had unusual powers of concentration. We studied the results in a curiously dispassionate way. I have many squeamish attitudes, and so does Eli, but on this day of the Ninth Mystery’s fulfillment all such weaknesses were purged from me. “There is one among thee,” said Frater Antony, “who has relinquished eternity for his brothers of the four-sided figure, so that they may come to comprehend the meaning of self-denial.” Yes. And so we staggered to the burial place a second time. And afterward, for my sins, I scrubbed the thick clotted stains from the room that had been Oliver’s. And finally I bathed, and sat alone in my room, examining in my mind the Mysteries of the Skull.
Summer lies heavy on the land. The sky throbs with stupefying heat. All seems predetermined and properly ordered. Timothy sleeps. Oliver sleeps. Ned and I remain.
In these months we have grown quite strong and our skins are dark from the sun. We live in a kind of waking dream, floating placidly through our daily round of chores and rites. We are not quite full-fledged fraters yet, but our time of Trial is nearing its end. Two weeks after that day of gravedigging I mastered the ritual of the three women and since then I have had no difficulties in absorbing any lesson the fraters would teach me.
The days flow together. We stand outside time here. Was it April when we came first to the fraters? Of what year, and what year is this? A waking dream, a waking dream. I feel sometimes that Oliver and Timothy are figures in another dream, one that I had long ago. I have begun to forget the details of their faces. Blond hair, blue eyes, yes, but then what? How were their noses shaped, how prominent were their chins? Their faces fade. Timothy and Oliver are gone, and Ned and I remain. I still remember Timothy’s voice, a warm supple bass, well controlled, beautifully modulated, with faintly nasal aristocratic inflections. And Oliver’s, a strong clear tenor, the tones hard- edged and firm, the accent neutral, the accentless American of the prairies. To them my gratitude. They died for me.
This morning my faith wavered, only for an instant, but it was a frightening instant; an abyss of uncertainty opened beneath me after so many months of wholehearted assurance, and I saw devils with pitchforks and heard the shrill laughter of Satan. I was coming in from the fields, and I happened to look far across the flat scrubby land to the place where Timothy and Oliver lie, and unexpectedly a thin scratchy voice in my head asked me, Do you think you’ve gained anything here? How can you be sure? How certain are you that it’s possible to have the thing that you seek? I knew a moment of awful fear, in which I imagined I stared with red-rimmed eyes into an icy future, seeing myself wither and shrivel and turn to dust in an empty, blasted world. The moment of doubt then left me, as suddenly as it had come. Perhaps it was just a vagrant gust of unfocused discontent, blowing idly across the continent toward the Pacific, that had paused briefly to unsettle me. I was shaken by what I had undergone, and I ran to the house, meaning to find Ned and tell him about it, but by the time I neared his room the episode seemed too ridiculous to share with him. Do you think you’ve gained anything here? How could I have doubted at all? A strange backsliding, Eli.
His door was open. I looked in and saw him sitting slumped, his head in his hands. Somehow he sensed my presence; he looked up quickly, rearranging his face, replacing a transient look of despair or dejection with a carefully bland expression. But his eyes were bright with strain and I thought I saw the glitter of incipient tears.
“You felt it too, then?” I asked.
“Felt what?” Almost defiantly.
“Nothing. Nothing.” An airy shrug. How can you be sure? We were playing games with one another, pretending. But doubt was general that morning. An infection running through both of us. How certain are you that it’s possible to have the thing that you seek? I felt a wall rising between him and me, preventing me from telling him of the fears I had felt, or from asking him why he had seemed so distraught. I left him and went to my room to bathe, and afterward to breakfast. Ned and I sat together but said little. Our morning session with Frater Antony was due to follow, but I felt somehow that I should not go, and when I had eaten I returned instead to my room. Do you think you’ve gained anything here? In confusion I knelt before the great mosaic-work skull-mask on my wall, staring at it with unblinking eyes, letting myself absorb it, compelling the myriad tiny bits of obsidian and turquoise, of jade and shell, to melt and flow and change, until that skull put on flesh for me and I saw a face over the gaunt bones, another face, another, a whole series of faces, a flickering, evershifting array of faces. Now I saw Timothy, and now the mask put on the finer features of Oliver, and now I saw my father, who swiftly was transformed into my mother. How can you be sure? Frater Antony looked down from the wall, speaking to me in an unknown tongue, and became Frater Miklos, murmuring of lost continents and forgotten caves. How certain are you that it’s possible to have the thing that you seek? Now I saw the slender, timid, big-nosed girl I had loved momentarily in New York, and I had to grope for her name — Mickey? Mickey Bernstein? — and I said, “Hello, I went to Arizona, just as I told you,” but she made no reply, I think she had forgotten who I was. She vanished and in her place came the sullen girl in the Oklahoma motel, and then the heavy-breasted succubus who had floated past me that night in Chicago. I heard the shrill laughter again, rising from the abyss, and wondered if I would have another of those moments of devastating doubt. Do you think you’ve gained anything here? Suddenly Dr. Nicolescu peered down at me, gray-faced, sad-eyed, shaking his head, accusing me in his mild self-deprecatory way of having treated him unkindly. I made no denials, but neither did I wince nor look away, for my guilt had been taken from me. I kept my weary eyelids open, staring at him until he was gone. How certain are you that it’s possible to have the thing that you seek? Ned’s face came. Timothy’s, again. Oliver’s. And then my own, the face of Eli himself, the prime instigator of the journey, the feckless
