by T E. D Klein
In the end, like lovers, the two children were parted, and Carol felt the customary lump form in her throat. The boy kicked over the crosses, trampled the mounds, and hid the rosary forever in the owl's nest, while, rigid with dread, the girl was led off like a prisoner and lost amid the crowds and confusion of a refugee center somewhere far away. Until this moment the story had been set within the rural isolation of a farm, and it had been easy to forget that, beyond the cornfields and the pastures, a modern world was speeding toward destruction.
She looked back at the young man near the wall – yes, she was sure now; it was Jeremy – in time to see him whisper something to his dark-haired companion. The woman turned to face him, smiled, and whispered something back. Her hand touched his shoulder familiarly. Carol felt a stab of disappointment so intense it made her catch her breath and look away. She saw that she'd been duped into coming here; she'd been a fool to have expected anything else. So much for her daydreams!
Moments later, in the front of the room, the screen was filled with Fin, like a gate slamming shut upon the characters' lives. By the time the overhead light came on, they had already receded into memory.
But Carol herself was already gone; she had gotten to her feet and slipped out the door before the film had ended.
She'd arrived in the New School with light still coloring the western sky. Departing now, she stepped outside and found herself in darkness broken only by the melancholy glow of streetlamps and a scattering of windows lit behind drawn curtains. Above the chimneys and the ventilator ducts a chip of moon looked small and far away.
After the heat and glare of the classroom, the cool night air with its solitude, its silence, brought a kind of relief. She walked listlessly, though, weighed down by a sudden feeling of fatigue and, beneath it, a dull unspoken loneliness. Several couples passed her as she made her way up the block – couples her own age, bound for a party, a disco, or a bar – and something in their voices made her feel painfully old. She was halfway to Sixth Avenue when, passing the doorway of an apartment house, she caught the smell of garlic, tomatoes, and cheese and remembered that she'd not yet eaten dinner. Her hunger had been forgotten for the duration of the film; now it returned with a rush.
Normally she'd have stopped at the all-night bodega at the end of her street to buy a package of spaghetti or a box of rice, but tonight the idea of cooking in that cramped, steamy little kitchen, with the ever-present roaches crawling just behind the stove, was too dispiriting to consider. When she reached the avenue, she paused. Tired as she felt, it was still too early to go home.
Home, in fact, seemed a rather dismal prospect, the more she thought about it. Rochelle would be up there with her new boyfriend tonight, the boisterous one who seemed so proud of his body and left coarse, dark curls in the sink and tub. The kitchen would be piled high with pots and dirty plates. The TV would be on – loudly, no doubt – but almost totally ignored; the two of them would be far more interested in each other. No doubt, too, they'd resent any interruption, though Rochelle would be more resentful than the boyfriend; he'd made one pass at Carol already. The television belonged to Rochelle and so did, in effect, the living room itself, since this was where she slept. Carol would be confined to her bedroom, trying to read or write letters above the sound of the TV's canned laughter and the less easily ignored laughter of the lovers.
Holding that image firmly in mind, she turned left on the avenue and headed toward the lights and crowds of Eighth Street, resolved that something good would happen to her before the night was through.
The night is growing dark now, but his mood is darker still. His wrinkled face is frozen in a scowl. From the shadowy recesses of an alley across the street he has seen the woman leave alone.
Something has gone wrong. Where is the man? The two of them are supposed to be together.
But perhaps it may still be arranged.
Stealthily he pads from the alley and into the street, moving toward the entrance of the school.
In the classroom on the third floor, Freirs and nearly a dozen of his students, some habitual sycophants, some who genuinely liked him, were still gathered near the front desk. After the film a far larger mass of them had surrounded him like a mob of petitioners, a few waving their papers at him, their excuses loud and earnest, others eager to get their reports back and quarrel over the grade. It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to get them sorted out and, as it was the final class, to write down the addresses of the students whose papers he would have to mail back over the summer. His red book bag was stuffed once more with work.
Now only the most loyal were left, clustered around him at the front of the room. Donna was among them, pretending to be interested in the topic at hand but fooling no one. Freirs took advantage of every opportunity to catch her eye; she was the best-looking thing in sight. 'Listen,' he was saying, half seated on the desk in a manner that allowed him to take the weight off his feet but still keep his head on a level with theirs, 'a lot of you seem to think that superstition disappeared from the human scene somewhere between the talkies and TV.' His eyes swept the group, daring them to look away. 'I only wish it were true, but it's just not so. I mean, think hard. How many buildings have you seen lately with a thirteenth floor?'
One of the younger men smiled – a good-natured longhair, or so he'd always seemed, who all this semester seemed to have enjoyed feeding Freirs his best cues. Everyone liked a good straight man. 'Oh, come on, Mr Freirs, that thirteenth-floor stuff is just a joke nowadays.'
'Believe me,' said Freirs, 'it's no joke. There are people in this country, even today, who think it'll rain if they pray hard enough. They're out there right now, happy as can be, brewing their love potions, warding off the evil eye, setting traps for demons. They tell time by the stars, just like their grandfathers did, and they still plant corn by moonlight.' It was the Poroths he was thinking of, Sarr's gloomy frown, Deborah naked under that severe black dress.
The student was still regarding him with amused skepticism, probably putting on an act for Donna and the rest. Or maybe it just seemed funny to him that a pudgy city boy like Freirs should talk knowingly of old-time country ways. Freirs dug deep into his wallet and pulled forth a dollar bill. 'You know,' he said, 'I can't resist this little test.' He nodded to the younger man. 'You're obviously one of those rare beings we all hear about, a totally rational man, and so I want to give you this dollar as a gift.' He waved it theatrically in the air. Several of the onlookers turned to one another and grinned. What was old Freirs up to now? 'All I want in return,' he continued, 'is a simple little note, signed and dated, selling me, for one dollar' -he leaned forward – 'your immortal soul.'
The others laughed, and Donna managed to get in a slightly too enthusiastic 'Oh, Mr Freirs!' The younger man eyed the money, smiling uneasily, but made no move to comply. 'You want it in writing, huh?'
Freirs nodded. 'That's all. Just a scrap of paper with your name on it, and the words, "This is to certify that I sell my soul to Mr Jeremy Freirs… forever." '
The student laughed but shook his head. 'Why take a chance?' he said, shrugging.
'Exactly! It's Pascal's wager in reverse.' Freirs stood, looking flushed, and stuffed the dollar back into his pocket. He turned to the rest of the group. 'So you see, kiddies, the old fears die hard. We're not out of the woods yet.'
His thoughts were on the farm again, out there in the night across the river. Behind the smiling faces of his students, darkness waited at the windows like a living presence. 'And now,' he said, suddenly tired, 'maybe it's time we adjourned for the summer. I've got a lot of packing to do.'
'Hey, anybody up for a drink?' the long-haired youth asked brightly, as if it had just occurred to him. He glanced quickly around the circle, lingering an extra second on Donna.
Several of the others voiced an interest in going. Donna remained silent – leaving herself free, Freirs realized. He wondered how he could go off with her without making it too obvious. 'Now if any of
you still have problems with your papers,' he said, 'deciphering my handwriting or disagreeing with my comments, we can- Uh-oh, what's going on here?'
The lights in the classroom blinked once, then again. After the second time, only the light directly above them came back on. Freirs saw Donna reach nervously in his direction, then draw back her hand.
'Sorry, you folks. Gotta clear this room.'
They turned. The voice, wheezy with age, had come from the shadows at the other side of the room. Dimly they could make out a small figure standing outlined in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hall. He appeared to be dressed in a shabby grey uniform several sizes too large. There was a pushbroom in his hand; he was holding it before him like a weapon.
'What's the rush?' said Freirs. 'We've always stayed this late before.'
The figure in the doorway seemed to shrug. 'End of the year,' he said softly. 'Gotta clear the room.'
Donna's lip curled. 'Boy! These goddamned janitors think they own the school.' She glanced at Freirs for support, but he was reaching for his jacket.
'Oh, well,' he said, 'I guess we've been here long enough.' Gathering up a few remaining papers and stuffing them into the bag, he began moving toward the door.
Awkwardly the others filed out, brushing past the small grey figure, who had turned away and was busily dragging through the doorway a large brown trash barrel almost as big as he was. Its wheels squeaked unpleasantly behind them.
Outside, in the light, Freirs stood slouching in silence by the hall elevator, but several of the younger students headed for the stairs. 'Come on,' called one, 'it's just two flights.' With a sigh Freirs straightened up and moved toward the stairway. The ones remaining followed him – all except Donna, who reached worriedly to her ear. 'Damn!' she muttered. Her left earring was gone.
The others had already started down. The hall was silent. Frowning, she searched the floor around her, then turned back toward the classroom. From its shadowed interior came a faint irregular squeaking, then silence again. Hesitating a moment, she strode through the doorway and disappeared inside.
'Do you mind putting on a light in here?' Her voice echoed in the hall. 'Fm trying to find-'
There was a thud, a high-pitched little laugh, and then a protracted series of cracking sounds, as of the splintering of wood. Moments later came another sound: the crunch of compressed paper, as from an object being stuffed into a wastebasket.
With a snap the final light went off, and then a small grey figure emerged from the darkness pushing a laden trash barrel, its wheels squeaking rhythmically as he steered it down the hall. To this noise, as if softly in counterpoint, he was whistling a tuneless little song.
Outside, the group had begun to disperse. 'There's no sense in waiting,' said one of the women. 'She's certainly not up there.' The others followed her gaze; she was staring at the darkened windows on the third floor.
'Right,' said a young man. 'She must've gone on ahead.' They turned to Freirs; he looked puzzled and somewhat annoyed. 'Well,' he said at last, shrugging, 'tell her when you see her that if she wants to talk about her paper, she'd better call me first thing tomorrow, because she won't be able to reach me after that.' Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he nodded goodbye. 'Maybe I'll be seeing some of you next fall. Have a pleasant summer.'
Two of the students walked westward with him as far as Seventh Avenue; but then, as Freirs turned south, they repeated their goodbyes and went their separate ways.
Smiling at what he's performed back there in the darkness, he slips from the doorway of the school, averting his face from the glare of the streetlamps. Beyond the glare, half hidden by the city's fumes, the night's first constellations glimmer faintly to the east, while before him, in the northern sky, Draco sweeps sinuously round an invisible pole star. To the west there are no signs at all save a lonely broken moon.
He has no need for signs now. He knows where the stars tremble cold and unseen overhead, and where they did so fifty centuries ago and will do so five thousand years hence. No matter that the Milky Way is grey with smog, or that lamplight hides the familiar shapes of Pegasus, the Herdsman, and the Swan. He knows just where to find them; knows, as well, their real and ancient names.
And he knows the land below them, knows it as a general knows terrain that's ripe for conquest. Far across the river, where the sun has disappeared, he the dominions of the unsuspecting world. Beyond the dark horizon, men and women fight and scheme and struggle. Others toil in a field like figures in a biblical tableau, chanting as they work. He can almost hear their song.
They will be his special playthings, these farmers. They will suffer first. His man Freirs- his fat, unwitting tool -will see to that. Soon, soon…
Swift as death he moves along the block in their direction, noting, as he hurries across the avenue, a paunchy, rumpled figure with a book bag and a seersucker jacket – Freirs himself, one block farther south, plodding gamely toward their common destination, unaware that he is headed anywhere but home. One avenue west of him, nearer the water, the old man turns southward too, jauntily swinging his briefcase, already eager to play his next part.
He pauses once in his journey to cock his head and listen for the voices. Before him the sky is stained red with neon, but to the west it shimmers with the whiteness of the moon. As he passes between the buildings he can see dim lights on the river, the distant shore, and, above it, the places where the stars will soon come into view. The stage is being set; soon the fools will get what they deserve. Let them sing while they can!
'Scramble thee, scratch thee,
Gillycorn Hill.
If Mouse don't catch thee,
Mole he will.'
In the moonlight the women were planting corn. They labored side by side, the seven of them, and in the gathering darkness they looked much alike. All were young, all married; all but one had borne a child. Their long hair hung down their backs loose and unadorned, but their bodies were concealed, neck to naked ankle, beneath dresses of homespun black. From a distance only the burlap sacks they carried at their sides were visible, and their pale white faces floating like will-o'-the-wisps over the empty field.
Ahead of them walked the seven men, treading stiffly in their starched white shirts, black vests, and high black leather shoes. They moved together in silence, grave of expression, faces cleanshaven but for the fringe of beard below each chin. As in a close-order military drill they carried long wooden staffs sharpened at both ends, and with every stride the men stabbed downward, making holes an inch deep and a yard apart in the freshly turned earth.
Behind them the line of women reached deep in their bags and, stooping gracefully to drop three kernels into each hole, chanted another measure of the counting rhyme.
'Hide thee, haste thee,
Gillycorn Hill…'
Standing, they pushed loose soil over the holes with a scrape of their bare feet, then moved on.
Suddenly one of them laughed aloud – unaffected, childlike laughter that carried through the evening air. 'I'm sure glad I didn't see what I just stepped on!'
The others giggled, causing a momentary break in the chant. 'Oh, Deborah,' said the one beside her, 'there's nothin' out here but a few night crawlers, and I've been steppin' on them ever since the moon came up. I've just said nothin' about it.' She took up the chant:
'If Mole don't taste thee,
Worm he will.'
At the end of the row another woman stood and wiped her brow. 'You'd best be right,' she said. 'I don't fancy the notion of tripping over a corn snake out here. 'Twouldn't do to have that kind of scare-not in my condition.' She patted her distended stomach.
'Just listen to her!' Deborah laughed again. 'Lotte Sturtevant's afraid her baby'11 be born with a split tongue!'
'Deborah!' Her husband whirled to face her, eyes blazing angrily in the moonlight. 'Have you forgotten yourself, woman? These good people came out here to kelp us.'
He stood a little taller than the o
ther men, wide shoulders tapering to a willow-thin waist, and despite the severity of his expression he was clearly a shade younger than the rest. His voice was stern and very deep, the voice of an Old Testament lawgiver, but it softened in one last urgent whisper: 'Please!'
Just as abruptly he turned and caught up with the others; none of them had looked back. 'My apologies, Brother Joram,' he said to the older man who walked beside him. 'She meant no harm. We both give thanks you're with us tonight.'
'No need for thanks, Sarr.' The man jabbed bis pole into the earth and withdrew it with an expert twist. 'We do what the Lord gives us to do. "They helped every one his neighbor, and every one said to his brother, Be of good courage." '
'Amen,' said the others in unison, without looking up from their work, and the younger man chimed in quickly, 'Amen.' Behind them the women continued their chant, but more softly now, for they were listening. Their voices were no louder than the chirping of the crickets.
From a distance came the muffled sound of other voices where the old men had gathered at the edge of the field, their faces illuminated by a low cottonwood fire. It was their task to tend it, and from time to time a shower of sparks signaled that they'd heaped another log upon the flames. Nearby a cluster of children stood in dutiful guard over a bag of seed bigger than themselves. The fields, they knew, were filled with thieves: birds, and mice, and hungry yellow corn worms. To lose a single kernel meant bad portent for the crops.
Farther off the windows of the little farmhouse were ablaze with light, and from the kitchen, where the older womenfolk were busy with their special preparations, there came the sound of voices raised in hymn. Between the farmhouse and the field jutted the squat shape of the low cinderblock outbuilding, its windows dark. Close behind it, like an impenetrably black wall, rose the encircling woods.