Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  The bus followed the main road as it curved westward, the stores and municipal buildings giving way to handsome suburban houses with gables, ornate shutters, and broad well-tended lawns, which in turn gave way to freshly plowed fields, pastures where cattle grazed, and occasional patches of woods. Abruptly the bus veered north, leaving the main road for a narrower one that twisted between tall hedges like the footpath it may once have been. It wound past small, shaded bungalows half hidden by trees and secretive little lanes where foliage blocked the view ahead. Down one of these the bus turned, branches scraping at its sides. The lane cut through a stand of cottonwoods and over a gentle, sparsely forested rise choked with ground ivy and brambles. Beyond it, winding away from each side of the road until they were lost amid the trees, ran what appeared to be the ruins of an ancient stone wall. As the bus passed through them, Freirs felt as if he were trespassing onto private ground.

  The way continued through a lane of cottonwoods and maples that looked as if they'd been there for centuries. Behind them stood a succession of dark-shingled houses, three on one side, four on the other – dwellings without ornament, obviously old, with lawns trimmed neatly and glimpses of gardens in back. Just past them the road suddenly widened and came to an end at another running perpendicular to it, forming a T. Facing the intersection stood a rambling white clapboard building with a wide front porch and a Post Office sign by the doorway. Behind it, and apparently attached, rose the tall rust-red pillar of a grain silo and the black gambrel roof of a barn, its weathered shingles curling in the sunlight.

  The bus slowed as it came into the intersection and pulled noisily up to the building. In front of it Freirs could see three old-fashioned gas pumps and, along one side, what appeared to be a loading area, with broad ramps leading up to a garage adjoining the barn. By one of the doorways stood a dusty little tractor and a wagon piled high with bags of grain. An empty pickup truck was parked ahead, near the pumps, with another parked farther back, in the shadow of the barn. Both trucks looked decades old, like the car he'd noticed in a driveway down the street; their paintwork was dark, lacking all decoration and chrome.

  No one was about. The porch was empty save for a straight-backed wooden bench; the front door was closed, the windows shuttered, the place as quiet and deserted an empty film set. There were no street signs to be seen, not even a sign above the building, and there'd been no words of welcome down the road. But Freirs knew, even before the bus driver turned and announced the name, that at last he'd reached Gilead.

  The bus left him standing alone before the store, holding his jacket and his envelope of clippings. As Deborah Poroth's letter had warned, there was no one to meet him, and as he turned to look around, he felt marooned. Across the street, set well back from the road behind a line of massive oaks, stood a building that he guessed to be a school – a square red-brick structure with a patchy brown playing field beside it and two lonely seesaws in front. At the opposite corner, on a piece of ground slightly higher than the rest, stood a little cemetery, old but obviously well tended, though here and there a tombstone was askew, like trees after a storm.

  The sound of the bus's engine faded beyond the curve of the road, leaving a silence broken only by the buzzing of insects and the occasional cry of a bird.

  Freirs hadn't really expected the town to be this small. He'd expected at least a town center, someplace for the populace to meet. Yet except for the schoolhouse back behind the trees, there appeared to be no civic buildings of any kind, not even a Grange hall or an American Legion post.

  What surprised him most of all was the absence of a church. From where he stood he could see. nothing but well-scrubbed houses bordering both sides of the road, and maples and oaks whose new foliage looked cool against the burning blue sky, the treetops receding into the distance toward a line of low green hills. The skyline was unbroken by either a golden cross or a slim white steeple. Perhaps services were held in some simple one-room tabernacle concealed behind a bend in the road.

  Turning, with a sigh, toward the clapboard building – obviously the Co-operative mentioned in the letter, though for a store it was curiously bare of window placards and advertising – he climbed the steps to the front porch, wishing there were somewhere around to take a pee. The bench did not look comfortable, and wasn't. Above him, as he sat, he noticed a row of ominous-looking iron hooks protruding from a beam in the porch ceiling. Probably where they hung the sinners. He wondered, briefly, what sins lay on his own head.

  He sat for a few minutes, savoring the silence. He was going to like this place, if the farm was as quiet as the town. Who knows, even boredom might be welcome. Tedium as Therapy: The Uses of Ennui. Time as a Function of… He was already beginning to feel drowsy. All those hours on the bus, and now this heat and solitude: it took a lot out of a body.

  His bladder was full, though, and there seemed little likelihood there'd be a bathroom handy. Typical, that he hadn't thought to go back there on the goddamned bus. Opposite him, by the schoolyard, a line of oaks made patterns of shade along the roadside; inviting, but he'd be too conspicuous there. Past the farther corner the stone slabs of the cemetery stood bathed in sunlight; behind them rose secluded clumps of trees. That was the likeliest place. Besides, there might be some interesting old tombstones; do some rubbings there someday. At least it would help pass the time.

  He strolled down the porch steps and across the street. Climbing the slope to the cemetery, he felt self-conscious. What if they didn't like strangers walking over great-granddaddy's head? That probably wasn't the case, though. People around here would be proud of these things, of how far back their families went.

  Here was one, for example; he stood looking down at a small white headstone that the years had worn almost smooth. Ephraim Lindt; who Died 1887 in the 63rd year of his Life. That wasn't as far back as he'd expected. Obviously you couldn't go by the condition of the stone; the white ones tended to weather more.

  Nearby he saw an older one that had held up better. Johann Sturtevant, Call'd to His Maker 1833, Aged Fifty-One. His Dutiful Wife, Korah, Join'd with Him in Heaven 1870, Aged Seventy-Eight. Jesus, a widow for almost forty years, and in a place like this.

  Farther back stood a small stand of willows and, behind them, a scraggly hedgerow. He approached them, unzipping his fly, and let loose a splattering yellow arc on the base of one tree. Insects circled round in protest. Off to the right he could see the assemblage of headstones regarding him like an audience – Buckhalter, Stoudemire, van Meer – but there was no one to see him but the ghosts of the dead, and surely they were tolerant. Envious, even. How long had it been since his citified cock had been touched by actual sunlight? Damn, but this place felt healthy! Zipping up and with nothing to flush, he wandered back to the graves.

  Slowly he made his way through the aisles, stopping at intervals to read the inscriptions on the older stones. Their quietude, the sense of souls and bodies in repose, had begun to make him drowsy again. Many of the stones had faces on them, or angels' heads, or skulls; some of the more modern ones had willows, like the one he'd just watered. There were also smaller headstones, for children. Picturing the tiny wooden coffins, Freirs tried to imagine how parents must have felt in an era when half the population died in childhood. Maybe, in those days, they didn't mind so much.

  Often married couples shared a single stone, but a number of others were in pairs, one for the husband, one for the wife, as if, in life, they'd slept apart and now saw no reason to change. Here lay the van Meers, Rachel and Jan, their gravestones side by side like bedboards. On hers, 1845 to 1912:

  Such as I am,

  Thus shall thou be.

  Just a cheery little reminder. And hubby, 1826 to 1906:

  Let this to thee a Warning be:

  Quickly thou must follow me.

  Not something he felt like thinking about right now. Later, maybe. He moved farther down the row, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. Maybe it was the sun that made him tired.


  Butterflies flitted between the tombstones; bees poked among the tall grasses along the bottom of the hill. He looked once more toward the store across the street. The door was still shut; no one had returned.

  Near the end of the row he stopped to puzzle out another inscription; the stone was of slate, and chipped almost beyond reading. Getting up again required too much effort. Dropping his jacket and envelope, he sat himself on the grass and stretched his legs, his feet merging with the shadow of the adjoining monument. It was the largest object in the row, a dark four-sided column whose top was jagged and oblique, yet obviously sculpted that way, as if to suggest that the shaft had been broken off. He craned his head back to read the words. The thing appeared to commemorate an entire family; a way of saving money, perhaps. You left a little space after the names, and, one by one, as the people dropped off, you added the years they died.

  Isaiah Troet

  1839 – 1877

  Hanna Troet

  1845-1877

  They had died the same year. Well, sometimes grief did that to people. Was it happier that way, or even sadder?

  His eyes felt heavy. He lay back in the sunlight, cradling his head in the grass, and squinted up at the rest of the names.

  THEIR CHILDREN

  Ruth 1863-1877

  Tabitha 1865-1877

  Amos 1866-1877

  Absolom 1868 Tamar 1871-1877

  Leah 1873-1877

  Tobias 1876-1877

  Odd. They all had died that year. Some sort of disaster, maybe. Plague, flood, famine in the land.

  His eyes closed. Sunlight beat against the lids, while blades of grass brushed his cheek. For a moment he had a vision of long-lost souls with funnily spelled names.

  Just as sleep claimed him, he recalled something else that had been odd: they had left out the death year for the one called Absolom. Idly, in a final thought, he wondered what it meant.

  Maybe Absolom had simply died the same year he was born. Poor kid, he thought, and slept.

  Wind sweeps in gusts across the Hudson, carrying the scent of oil from the Jersey shore: oil, and a burning, and the strange sweet far-off scent of roses.

  No one has noticed – no one but the plump little figure perched unobtrusively at the end of the bench, a battered old umbrella by his side. No one else is watching; no one would understand. No one sees the patterns in the water, or smells the corruption beneath the flower scent, or hears the secret sound the grass makes when the wind dies.

  Once more the air grows still. Small green moths flit among the weeds; hornets buzz thirstily around a barrel of refuse. No one could guess what is happening. The river rolls past the park, unobserved; the planet rolls through space, unsuspecting; the Old One's squat black shadow lengthens on the bench.

  In the shadow, shielded from the afternoon sun, a baby sleeps peacefully, its tiny olive face protruding from a tight cocoon of blanket. A woman, presumably its mother, sits slumped beside it, head fallen forward, eyes sunken and shut tight, skeletal arms hanging like dead things at her sides. On the ground beneath her lies a crumpled paper bag from which the neck of a bottle emerges; the cap has long since rolled into the grass.

  Except for the three figures on the bench, this area of the park is almost deserted. The only movement comes from near the trash barrel, where a pair of glossy yellowjackets rise and dip in ceaseless search for food. His face impassive, the Old One watches as one of the insects slips from sight behind the rim and falls greedily upon some rotting thing within. The other circles round the spot in ever-widening arcs until, having flown as far as the bench, it pauses above the paper bag, tiger stripes thrashing furiously beneath a blur of wings. Settling atop the bottle, it disappears inside.

  Suddenly the air changes; he can feel it. Whispering the Second of Seven Names, the Old One turns his gaze toward the river, the farther shore, and the shadowy hills beyond. Strange clouds have appeared on the horizon; part two of the sequence is almost complete. He sits poised, ready, rigid with anticipation. In a moment- In a moment A small green moth flutters past his face and comes to rest on the back of his hand. Feebly its wings open and close, open… close. .. then at last fall open and lie still. All movement ceases.

  At the far end of the bench the woman's head falls back as if, in a dream, she has offered her throat to the knife. A small bubble of saliva grows and bursts at her lips. Her mouth opens like a rose.

  High overhead a white bird wheels erratically in its flight and falls screaming toward the Hudson.

  The signs are all about him now. It is time. The Old One sings the Death Song to himself and shivers with exultation. He has been waiting more than a lifetime for this – waiting, and planning, and readying himself for what he has to do. Now the moment is at hand, and he knows that the years of preparation have not been in vain.

  Above the park the sky remains a blinding blue; the sun glares mercilessly down. With a metallic gleam the second yellowjacket lifts from its feast and comes spiraling toward the woman on the bench, to hover inches from her gaping mouth. From the empty bottle the other insect rises buzzing toward the baby's face. Mother and child sleep on.

  The Old One regards them silently, watching the slow rise and fall of the woman's chest, the hollow cheeks and ravaged flesh, the infant in its mindless sleep. Here it lies, in all its glory: humanity.

  He has plans for it.

  And now, after a century's contemplation, he is free to act; the future is clear at last. He has heard the strange, piercing cries of the white birds circling overhead. He has read the ancient words chipped into the city's blackened brick. He has seen the foulness at the edge of a young leaf, and the dark shapes that lie in wait behind the clouds. Last night as he marked the birth of May, standing in solemn observance upon the rooftop of his home, he has seen the horned moon with a star between the tips. There is nothing left to learn.

  Flicking the moth from his hand, he reaches for his umbrella, stands up from the bench, and grinds the tiny body into the earth. No longer shielded from the afternoon sunlight, the baby stirs, squints, and opens its eyes. A yellowjacket settles lightly onto its cheek; the other buzzes with interest round a frantically twitching eyelid.

  Bound within the blanket, the infant struggles helplessly to free its arms. The little mouth opens in a scream. Oblivious, the woman sleeps on.

  The Old One stands watching for a time. Then, with a wintry smile, he turns his footsteps toward the city.

  The world had darkened. A deep voice was intoning his name. Freirs jerked awake, grumpy and scared, to find his head in shadow; for a moment he didn't know where he was. A figure was standing over him, blocking out the sun.

  'Jeremy Freirs?'

  He managed a grunt of assent.

  'I'm Sarr Poroth. My truck's down there by the road.'

  The man looked as tall as the monument beside him. The sunlight at his back made him hard to see.

  Still dazed, Freirs got to his feet and brushed himself off, then picked up his jacket and papers. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes behind his glasses.

  'I think that bus ride knocked me out.'

  Wishing he were still asleep, he followed Poroth through the rows of tombstones and down the slope toward an old dark-green pickup truck parked at the edge of the road. The Co-operative across the street was open now, he saw, with several more trucks and autos in the adjoining lot. All were as somber in color, and most of them as antiquated-looking, as the ones he'd seen earlier, like cars in old photographs. The Co-op's windows were unshuttered now, with merchandise spilling out the open door, and a balding man with glasses and a fringe of beard was busily dragging straw baskets of sponges, axe handles, rubber boots, and overalls from the doorway onto the porch. It looked like moving day. The porch ceiling was already filled, garlands of clothes-line, shiny metal farm implements, and kerosene lanterns dangling like mobiles from the hooks that had looked so ominous before. A stocky mechanic was bent beneath the raised hood of a car parked off to the side of th
e gas pumps; Freirs could hear the regular iron scrape of some tool he was using and, in the distance, the hum of a tractor. Sounds of civilization. He blinked in the sunlight as he followed Poroth toward the truck. His legs still felt stiff from his nap.

  The screen door across the street swung wide and two young men – brothers, from the look of them, and hardly more than teenagers – emerged from the store carrying mesh bags stuffed with groceries. They couldn't have been more than high school age, yet both, like Poroth, wore beards without mustaches and dressed in black overalls over collarless white shirts, making them appear almost elderly. They had been talking together with some animation but fell silent as they saw Freirs and Poroth descending from the graveyard across the street. Poroth, ahead of him, raised his hand in greeting; they waved back. The smaller of the two glanced at Freirs in surprise but quickly looked away, following the other down the steps toward one of the parked trucks. The strangeness, a feeling almost of foreignness, lay not so much in how they dressed as in how they moved: they walked closer together than boys in Freirs' world, and without the defiant swagger most of them affected. As they climbed into their truck, giving Freirs a last subdued glance over their shoulders, he had the impression that they'd have liked to stare longer but that it would have been rude, betraying an unseemly curiosity. Such restraint was somehow unnerving; he felt like one of the first Westerners to enter Japan must have felt, being received courteously and correctly but, it was clear, by people who considered themselves superior.