the manipulators could have served. Why leave me with the devices that would help me kill? For a while things seemed to be going so well… It seemed as if everything were near to completion, as if a few days more would have seen a successful end to the Pilg. It seemed as if the image might soon be captured and the job finished. I had— hope. Then, so quickly after… despair. Is that an aspect of the God of Wrath? Perhaps Pete raised a valid question. What to emphasize in such a study? Even if I am to look upon his face, is it possible that, this time, I may be unable to do a painting correctly? How can I capture the essence of such a being in surface and color? It—it passeth understanding… I miss Toby. He was a good dog. I loved him. But that poor madman—I am sorry I killed him. He could not help it that he was mad. If I had kept those arms and legs the whole thing would have been different… I might have given up and walked home. After all, I am not even certain I could paint with real hands. God, if you ever want to give them back, though… No, I do not think I will ever have them again. It—I do not understand. I was wrong in accepting this commission. I am certain of that now. I wanted to depict that which may not be shown, that which cannot be understood. It is an impossible job. Pride. There is nothing else to me other than my skill. I know that I am good. It is all that I have, though, and I have made too much of it. I had felt, somehow, that it was more than sufficient, not just to make me the equal of a whole man, but to surpass other men, to surpass even the human. I wanted all the future generations of worshipers to look at that work and to see this. It was not the God of Wrath I wanted them to look upon with awe, but the skill of Tibor McMasters. I wanted that awe, their wonder, their admiration—their worship. I wanted deification through my art, I see that now. My pride brought me the entire way. I do not know what I am going to do now. Go on, go on, of course. I must do that. This is not at all how I thought things might turn out.
The rain had stopped. He tensed and relaxed his muscles. He looked up. The cow was chewing her cud. He heard Pete’s snores. No. Pete was sitting up, looking his way.
“Tibor?” Pete said.
“Yes?”
“Where is that snoring coming from?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was you.”
Pete stood, listening. He looked about the barn, turned, and moved toward a stall. He looked within. He would have dismissed it as a bundle of rags and trash if it had not been for the snoring. He leaned nearer and was engulfed by the aura of wine fumes which surrounded it. He drew back quickly.
“What is it?” Tibor called out.
“Some bum,” Pete said, “sleeping one off, I think.”
“Oh. Maybe he could tell us about the settlement up ahead. He might even know something more…”
“I doubt that,” Pete said. Holding his breath, he returned and examined the figure more closely: an untrimmed beard stained a number of colors, ancient crumbs of food still trapped within it, a glistening line of saliva down through its strands, framing teeth which had gone beyond yellow to a brownish cast, several of them broken, many missing, the remainder worn; the heavily lined face could be seen as sallow in the light which fell upon it through the nearest hole in the roof; nose broken at least twice; heavy encrustations of pus at the corners of the eyes, dried upon the lashes; hair wiry, tangled long and gray pale as smoke. A tension of pain lay upon that face even in sleep, so that tics, twitches, and sudden tightnesses animated it unnaturally, as though swarms of insects moved beneath the skin, fighting, breeding, dying. Over-all, the form was thin, wasted, dehydrated. “An old drunk,” Pete said, turning back again. “That’s all. Can’t know too much about the settlement. They probably ran him out of it.”
The rain has stopped and there is still some light, Pete thought. Best we leave him here and get moving again. Whatever he has to tell us will hardly be worth the hearing, and we would be stuck with a hangover bum on our hands.
“Let’s just leave him and go,” he told Tibor.
As he moved away, the man moaned and muttered, “Where are you?”
Pete was silent.
“Where are you?” came the croaking voice once more, followed by a thrashing about from within the stall.
“Maybe he is ill,” Tibor said.
“I do not doubt it.”
“Come here,” said the voice, “come here…”
Pete looked at Tibor.
“Maybe there is something we can do,” Tibor said.
Pete shook his head, moved back to the stall.
Just as he looked about the partition, the man said, “There you are,” but he was not looking at Pete. He was addressing a jug he had withdrawn from beneath a mound of straw. He uncorked it but lacked the strength to raise it to his lips. He threw his head back then and turned it to the side. He tipped the jug toward his mouth, sucked upon it. Some of the wine splashed over his face. As he uprighted the jug, he was seized with a spell of coughing. Ragged, breaking sounds emerged from his chest, his throat, his mouth. When he spat, Pete could not tell whether it was blood or wine residue that reddened the spittle so. Pete moved to withdraw.
“I see you,” the man said suddenly, his voice slightly firmer than it had been. “Don’t go away. Help old Tom.” His voice slid into a practiced whine then. “Please, mister, can you spare a—help? A help for me? M’arms don’t work so good. Must’ve slept on ‘em funny.”
“What do you want?” Pete asked.
“Hold this jug for me, please. I don’t want to spill any.”
“All right,” Pete said.
Holding his breath, he entered the stall and knelt beside the old man. He raised the frail shoulders with his right arm, gripped the jug with his left hand. “Here,” he said, and he held it tilted while the other drew a long series of swallows from it.
“Thank you,” said the man, coughing less vigorously than before, but still showering Pete’s wrist and forearm.
Pete lowered him quickly and set down the jug. He began to draw away, but a bony hand snatched his wrist.
“Don’t go, don’t go. I’m Tom, Tom Gleason. Where you from?”
“Utah. Charlottesville, Utah,” Pete said, struggling not to breathe.
“Denver,” said Tom, “that’s all, thank you. It was a nice city. Good people, you know? Someone always had the price of a flop and—what’s the word? Thunderbird!” He chuckled. “What’s the price? Thirty twice. You want a drink, mister? You have some of this. Ain’t bad. Found it in the cellar of an old place off the road, back—” His hand flopped. “What way? Oh hell! There’s more there. Have some. Still plenty here.”
“Thanks,” Pete said. “No.”
“You ever been to Denver?”
“No.”
“Remember how nice it was before they burned it. The people were nice, you know? They—”
Pete exhaled, breathed, gagged.
“Yeah, gets me that way, too,” Tom said. “Burning a nice place like that. Why’d they do it, anyhow?”
“It was a war,” Pete said. “Cities get bombed when you have wars.”
“I didn’t want no war. It was such a nice place. No reason to bomb a nice place like Denver. I got burned when they did it.” His hand plucked feebly at his tattered shirt. “Want to see my scars?”
“That’s all right.”
“I got ‘em. Got plenty. Had me in a field hospital for a while. Threw me out soon as I got better. It wasn’t nice anymore. Hardly anything to drink, or eat either. Those was rough times. I don’t remember so much anymore, but I went a lot of places after that. Nothing left like Denver was, though. Nothing nice left. People ain’t so nice anymore either, you know? Hard to get a little juice from folks nowadays. Sure you don’t want none?”
“Better save it,” Pete said. “Hard to get.”
“That’s the truth. Help me to another, will you?”
“Okay.”
While he was doing this, Tibor called out, “How is he?”
Pete said, “Coming around.” Then, “Wait awhile.”
On an impulse then, he asked Tom, “Do you know who Carleton Lufteufel was?”
The old man looked at him blankly, shook his head.
