by T E. D Klein
The Old One lies back, yawning, and allows himself a smile. He has had a full day of it, and a full night. There has been much to do: roles to play, rituals to perform, the theft of a minor belonging. He has spent the greater part of the night observing the man and the woman; later he narrowed his attentions to the man and stood watch in the street below his window – a squat, shabby little figure hovering just beyond the lamplight, patient and alone, standing huddled beneath the black umbrella, unmoved by the rain that broke the stillness, or the stillness that followed the rain.
At last the window had gone dark, like the woman's a mile away, and, noting the time with a satisfied nod, he'd begun his journey homeward. Even then he was busy, preparing lines of future conversation, reciting certain chants, whispering a word in a long-forgotten tongue. Years of calculations have waited to be verified within the compass of a single sunrise; there have been readings to be taken from the shadows it produced – from the winking red and yellow lights of an unknown vessel passing silently up the Hudson, from reflections of a fading star in the puddle at his feet. His figuring has had to be precise, his timing flawless. In this way, and no other, can the final sites be chosen for the Ceremonies.
Now he is tired, too weak to do more than turn his head from side to side and contemplate the clear, unclouded sky. Yet still he has not slept; nor will he, until the thing he's planned is done. Of human needs, food alone remains, and the occasional dose of sun to warm his bones. As for the absurd routine of sleep – the head mashed to the pillow, the face relaxed or clenched, the mind unmoored, eight hours adrift, lost among infantile fantasies – he has put all that behind him long ago, as easily as a serpent sheds its skin. As for dreams, they have not troubled him for more than half a century.
Not that he would sleep now, in any case. He is far too pleased with the progress he has made. In every act, her every word, no doubt her every thought, the woman has proven herself suitable – positively eager, in fact. She has come through her first day splendidly: after a certain delay, quite inconsequential and in no way her own fault, she has gone on to establish a really promising emotional relationship with the selected man. Final contact is complete.
The man himself is perfect, right down to the date and the hour of his birth nearly thirty years ago. Perfect, too, that he's a solitary soul, lonely and suggestible – the sort who'll pose no problems if correctly used. And used he will be, that much is certain. After all, what else are tools for?
The roommate is another story. Something is going to have to be done about her. 'Free spirit' indeed! Why, she's nothing but a common whore! He isn't going to have her tempting his little virgin. Not a chance!
Yes, something will definitely have to be done – and soon. He isn't sure what method he will use, but he has never lacked for ideas.
The ascendant sun is dazzling now, making rainbows in his eyes. The Old One blinks and looks away. Beside him, arrayed upon the low brick wall that runs along the edge of the roof, lies the simple apparatus that will occupy his day: the jelly jar, still empty, and the bag, quite full, and – resting on a musician's practice book to keep the pages from turning in the breeze – the shabby leather flute case with the black plastic handle. Common objects, all of them. There will be nothing strenuous for him today, but he will not be idle.
Taking the bag by its cloth straps, he hangs it on a nail projecting just inside the wall, where it dangles heavily, suspended a few inches above the surface of the roof. The leather case is next; from its velvet lining he withdraws a stubby white flageolet that shines like polished ivory. Before putting it to his lips, however, he lays the music book upon his lap, opened to Exercise Seven: Atonal Syncopations. He has, in fact, no interest in music and no intention of wasting time on such a composition, but the seventh exercise bears a vague resemblance to the complicated patterns he'll be playing, and any other tenant who chances upon the roof today will see only a harmless little man, lips puckered, lunch stowed on the wall beside him, laboring earnestly over an unmelodic series of minors, trills, and dissonances. It is good to be prepared.
Already the air has begun to grow warmer; the breeze is soothing at this height, with the occasional fragrance of early summer foliage from the park a dozen floors below. He breathes deeply. Holding the flute in both hands, he blows three notes, soft and low, that fade into silence. The air grows still. Eagerly he looks toward the bag.
Inside it, something stirs.
The touch of a smile crosses his face; he blows the notes once more. The bag stirs violently now, as if something inside it were struggling to be free. It gives a sudden jerk, almost dislodging the brick on which the jar rests.
Carefully placing the jar at his feet, he begins to play.
There is no rhythm to his playing, and no tune. The patterns are impossible to discern. To any listener, it would seem – but for a certain exotic quality in some of the phrases – little more than a succession of random tones, like a man punching typewriter keys in an unknown language. And yet the notes, in fact, form a song. The Death Song.
Which, curiously, is a song about birth.
The gleaming white tube sways erratically before his face; his fingers scuttle like spiders up and down its length. Above him the air trembles with the sound, and whirlwinds sweep invisibly toward the heavens.
It is a moment of awakening. The bag rocks back and forth. All nature is stirring now – the river, the trees, the dancing air – and something outside nature, deep beneath the earth, where rock grinds slowly against rock. He can hear it stirring, and is glad.
Raising his eyes from the now-blinding sun, he goes on playing, gazing into a sky so blue it looks as if it were ready to shatter into a million pieces, like the rending of an egg.
It is going to be a beautiful day.
All morning he plays softly upon the flageolet, his small pink head bobbing in elusive time, the flute sound competing with the cries of the birds. At intervals he pauses to watch the movement in the bag; the thing inside thrashes wildly, nearly tearing through the cloth. Whenever he sees this, he smiles.
Once the sun has wandered to the other side of the sky and is settling toward the western hills, he plays his last three notes. They are the first three he played, but in reverse order. Laying aside the instrument, he pronounces a certain word and pushes himself up from the chair. Five hours or less till midnight: his present work is all but done.
By sunset he is ready. The chair is folded and in place beside the elevator tower, the music tossed away; the flute case and the jelly jar, now full, he takes downstairs.
Behind him, in the center of the roof, lies the aftermath of his day's labor: a glistening pink cruciform of entrails, tied with a stolen red hair.
And spread beneath it, torn as if by razor claws, lies the empty canvas bag, glowing scarlet in the sunset – a bag that, till this day, has held no more than books.
Darkness finds him crouching on the walkway by the river's edge, his dim white form reflected in the water, making certain languid motions with his hand in the space between the concrete and the railing. From the distance of the park he would seem a vulnerable little figure, like a child crouched before a mud puddle, absorbed in some grave and private task. His hand flicks downward, and a cascade of small bright objects, jagged shards as white as bone, falls glimmering in the moonlight to vanish beneath the waves. Here and there a feather, like a speck of cloud, is carried by the wind.
All that remains is the Libation, the offering of the Orh'teine. Formula calls for a beaker or a flask; the jelly jar, he knows, will do as well. With a flourish he empties it into the river. In the instant before it is lost from sight, it stains the waters a cloudy black -though by daylight they may well have shown up red.
Clutching the rail with both hands, he climbs to his feet and stands facing the river. Across it lies the Jersey shore, and beyond that rolling farmlands, the plowed earth cooling now and plunged in night. A few tiny lights flicker like campfires in the dark hills.
To this the man is bound. Tomorrow, with the morning, he'll be speeding toward the countryside, his head stuffed full of ignorant romantic nonsense, his bags weighed down with piles of books -books of just the right sort. How useful he is going to be, once he comes of age and, in the moonlight, reads the passage from the storybook…
The old man speaks the Fourth Name, whispers three more words, and smiles. A chilling breeze from off the river stirs the pale wisps of his hair. Watching the stars sweep majestically toward the horizon, he thinks of all that is to come.
The woman is to play the major part, but the man's role will come first. The blind fool doesn't know it yet, but there are going to be some changes made amid those distant hills – changes beyond dreaming.
And on the night that he turns thirty they will all begin with him.
Book Two: Poroth Farm
'Surely,' I said, 'there is little left to explore. You have been born a few hundred years too late for that.'
'I think you are wrong,' he replied; 'there are still, depend upon it, quaint, undiscovered countries and continents of strange extent.'
Arthur Machen, The Novel of the Black Seal
June Twenty-sixth
Dear Carol,
Greetings from the sticks! I’ve been here all of four and a half hours and already my voice has taken on a colorful rustic twang. By this time tomorrow I expect to be walking around with a straw hat over my eyes and a wheat stalk dangling from my lips. Amazing what this country air can do.
Actually, the air here is quite nice, and it makes me wonder what in God's name I've been breathing for the last twenty-nine years. (I just hope it doesn't give me one of those legendary country appetites.) Outside in the yard you can really smell things growing. Which, for this guy, is something of a novelty.
Everything out here is ridiculously green, and so silent I'm tempted just to sit still and listen to it. No traffic noise, no subways or construction gangs or psychos. And no more jangling telephones, thank God! Believe me, it's every bit as quiet as the library. You'll feel right at home.
I came out today on the afternoon bus, lugging two monstrous suitcases stuffed with books, papers, and a few changes of clothes. Sarr met me in Gilead with his truck. He's just like I described him. He comes on a bit solemn at first – gloomy, even – but underneath it all I believe he's just shy. You'll like him.
You'll probably like Deborah even more. She's already filled me in on all the local gossip. (Gilead, it seems, is not composed entirely of saints; though I noticed she didn't bring this up till her husband was gone.) She also insisted on telling me the complete, unedited life histories of each of their seven cats. I'll spare you the details; you'll probably get an encore when you come out. She's fascinated by New York City, incidentally, which I gather she hasn't visited since meeting Sarr.
So here I am, ensconced in my rural retreat, sitting at an old wooden table which I've set up as a desk. There's a small bookcase right beside it which Deborah found in the storeroom, and another one next to my bed. My books are all unpacked now, and I've spent the last couple of hours getting things tidied up a bit, patching a few holes in the screens, etc. The windows let in lots of sun, and the place is much more cheerful than I probably made it sound. You'll see when you get here (which, needless to say, I hope you'll do next weekend). I certainly don't anticipate any problems.
Well, I suppose I ought to get busy with some work of my own. I hope to devote myself to the Three R's while I'm out here – reading and 'riting, with 'rithmetic to help me figure out how to crowd a year's worth of the first two into a single summer. (To keep track of my progress I intend to start a journal, but somehow doubt it'll rival Thoreau's.) Earlier today I found some old lawn chairs in the storeroom on the other side of this outbuilding, so I guess I'll take one of them outside and read till dinnertime. There's only an hour or so of daylight left, and I may as well take advantage of it.
See you soon, I trust. Write and let me know.
XXX
Jeremy
P.S. I'm enclosing a Flemington bus schedule. You have to tell the driver in advance that you want Gilead, otherwise they bypass the place. You could come out Friday after work and be here before dark.
Horace Walpole, The Castle of Otranto (1764). Chapter one. 'Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth… '
No one can accuse Walpole of beating around the bush.
Essay topics: Show how the techniques of stagecraft are used to enhance suspense. Gothic fantasy as literature of setting, mystery as literature of plot, science fiction as literature of ideas.
Why the Gothic is inherently conservative. Sexual nature of grief.
Sexual nature of fear.
After dinner, chapters two through five.' "I would say something more," said Matilda, struggling, "but it would not be – Isabella -Theodore – for my sake – oh!" She expired. Isabella and her woman tore Hippolita from the corpse; but Theodore printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands… '
Somehow this stuff doesn't really grab me. Castles, monks, giant helmets… Maybe I shouldn't have started so far back.
Or maybe it's just the glare from this goddamned desk lamp. Must get a proper shade for it next time I'm in town, otherwise I'll go blind. Would walk back inside amp; ask the Poroths for one, but don't think they'd be much help, since – bless their masochistic hearts -the two of them seem determined to make do with gas lamps amp; kerosene lanterns. (Something I deliberately neglected to mention in letter to Carol.)
Anyway, thank God for Thomas Edison.
Nighttime now. The Poroths already have their lights off, amp; a million moths are tapping at my screens. One of them's a fat white fellow the size of a small bird. Never saw one like it. What kind of caterpillar must it have been?
Jesus, I hope the damned things don't push through the wire.
Wonder if the dampness brings them out. There's a line of hills not far away, but here the elevation's low amp; the night air smells of water. Already I've noticed a greenish band of mildew around the bottom of my walls.
Bugs, too. Lots of them. This place is really infested. (Something else I neglected to tell Carol. Ditto dampness, musty smell, wasps near smokehouse, etc. etc. Why turn her off the place before she comes?) Seems to me the Poroths might have taken a bit more time to clean it, instead of waiting till I got here; I had to go over the entire room twice after Deborah'd left, amp; each time I found new ones. God knows what they were. Sure as hell don't care to look them up in the guide.
Worst of all are the spiders, esp. near the screens. Think I got most of them by now, but had to use up half a roll of paper towels squashing the bastards. Must buy more the next time I'm in town, amp; a can or two of insect spray.
Killing spiders is supposed to bring bad luck -
'If you wish to live amp; thrive,
Let the Spider walk alive'
– but I'll be damned if I'm going to sleep with anything crawling around in here. Anyway, too late now: I'm already a mass murderer. They can add up the total in heaven.
Still hard to know just what to make of the Poroths. Everything they do seems to have a special meaning that outsiders can't begin to understand. Even the farm itself has a kind of religious significance. It's supposed to bring the two of them closer to God – here they can be 'in the world, but not of it,' Sarr says – amp; they're supposed to find satisfaction in the day-to-day labor, rather than in the money it might bring. That's why they have no restrictions against working on Sunday, amp; why progress is such a dirty word to them: it means escape from toil.
Deborah seems to work as hard as Sarr does. She was cleaning up in here when we arrived, on her knees scrubbing the floor. Some- thing curiously erotic about a woman in that position, exerting herself while you're at your ease.
Sarr tried to pitch in amp; help for a while, but finally he excused
himself and left. He was probably relieved to get back to the fields; he's sure not much on small talk. At dinner tonight he gave me a blow-by-blow chronicle of this morning's service – apparently the whole community meets each Sunday in someone's back yard, with the Poroths' turn coming up next month – amp; then launched into a long, earnest explanation of the various theological differences between the Brethren amp; the general run of Mennonites, differences he claimed were extremely deep. (For a silent type, he really talks a lot when he gets going.) He lost me after the first minute or two. As far as I'm concerned, they're all just fundamentalists amp; they all wear funny clothes. I've even noticed an occasional 'tis or 'twasn't creeping into their conversation, esp. when they're going in for Bible talk. I gather the townfolk are even more prone to it.
Made my first mistake at dinner tonight. Sat down amp; started to eat, then heard Sarr saying grace. Hastily apologized, of course, amp; waited till he was done, but I find that such things don't embarrass me the way they used to. Maybe that's because I'm nearing thirty.
(Shit, only one goddamned week left. Somehow I dread that moment. Better not to think of it.)
The food, at least, was even better than I'd hoped: chicken, peas, amp; baked potato, with spice cake for dessert. Homemade, too. Deborah obviously likes to cook.
I'll bet she makes Sarr a damned good wife. He kept reaching out to touch her every time she passed where he was sitting. I guess planting makes people horny. Can't say I blame him; I felt almost the same this afternoon, when she was scrubbing my floor. Not that she makes the slightest attempt to be seductive.
I'd like to see her with her hair down. Still can't get that picture of her out of my head, standing there waving goodbye to me, naked beneath that long black dress.
She seems to be the perfect Bountiful Housewife: full breasts, wide hips, always filled with energy. Looks as if she'll bear a lot of children.