“One cannot, of course,” said yet another Victorian voice, a rather aged gentleman. “Although they meant to take us hostage, and certainly mean us harm.”
“For beyond doubt,” yet another gentleman said, and this voice had the clipped intonations of a businessman, “there are those of us who contributed to their unhappy state. We have a responsibility—nay, a duty—to their souls.”
“Because we are Victorians,” yet another voice said.
“Because we are Presbyterians,” Janie told the lot of them.
To Kune, she yelled, “Let’s move it up there, buddy.”
Sobbing diminished, screams diminished as the Victorians and The Parsonage brought load after load of refugees from the darkness and into the street of flowers. Victorians kept stiff upper lips, remained calm; and some of their strength and calm affected the crowd. As Bev and the IWW and the Suffragettes and the WWI vet attended minor bruises, scrapes and hysteria, the darkness was gradually defeated. Joel-Andrew engaged in a struggle against darkness, but no one except Agatha had time to pay attention.
Forces of light and forces of darkness played across the heavens, and across the faces of Joel-Andrew and August Starling. They locked in struggle, like the struggle of mythical and titanic forms. Cracks in the pavement opened as fire and the yellow stench of sulfur rose clawing at Joel-Andrew’s eyes. Joel-Andrew answered with a little whirlwind that carried the dangerous stuff into the atmosphere. In retrospect, Agatha feels the issue was never in serious doubt, although she remembers flashes of awful fear. There were moments when every soul in Point Vestal seemed forfeit.
August Starling stirred the earth, rumbled the earth, so the bluff shook in danger of avalanche. Soil and boulders hovered ready to fall on the hidden parade. Joel-Andrew answered with the winds of heaven and with the molding power of driven rain. Joel-Andrew cast forth sycamore, blackberry, and thickly netting roots of ivy. The bluff held. Joel-Andrew struck hard with the cries of birds, the crashing echoes of waterfalls, and with glancing light like sunlight hovering around fountains. Starling staggered, lost ground; and then Starling replied with the screams of tortured men, with the choking smell of cremation ovens and gas chambers. Through it all, Kune’s voice, sounding firmly from above, directed the rescue operation. Obed and Gerald had the crowd under strong control. Obed’s voice called from the darkness. Obed told jokes, or sardonic stories that were fabulous.
August Starling’s face became drawn. It shriveled like paper, seemed flayed. His eyes turned dark black, then turned to red. Tiny whispers of flame dwelt about his lips. Joel-Andrew’s gray-green eyes were alight with strain, and he stared, stared, stared at August Starling. Joel-Andrew seemed to fear risking so much as a single blink, and his slight form tensed until his shoulders shook. August Starling brought forth flame from the earth, and Joel-Andrew covered it with soft fingers of rapidly falling snow. Joel-Andrew shoved Starling’s darkness backward, then paused to catch his breath. Starling brought the darkness forward, nearly to the edge of the field of flowers. It was then that the battle heated up.
Cracks appeared on the horizon. The line between sea and sky shattered, and from the awful void between sea and sky spewed creatures of hell, and of hell’s imagination. A wave of fangs, claws and witchery spread above the waters of the Strait while heavenly light staggered beneath the molten glow of volcanic eruptions.
Warlocks rode high and grand, their long capes flying so the sky temporarily stood curtained in darkness. Witches ran the scale of satanic laughter, while demon bats stroked the skies with leathery wings. Trolls and werewolves and obscene giants walked a path above the water. Snakes as long as sea serpents cruised the surface of the Strait, but the snakes were met by pod after pod of killer whales. The snakes flailed, then disappeared in flashes of smoke as the whales struck, then struck again. Lightning cracked and thunder roared. As his forces massed, August Starling dropped every pretense of chirping. His slight form grew, his face became tense and lean. As the sky blackened, fire dwelt on August Starling’s fingertips, and fire lived on each side of him; the fire coiling heavenward in twisting fountains.
Joel-Andrew answered with extravagant rainbows. The rainbows formed complete circles, like colored smoke rings in the sky. Rainbows spun loops through which no warlock could pass. Witches attempted to ride through the circles, and the witches and warlocks turned into clear air. Trolls tumbled and were torn by werewolves, while the werewolves—with long drawn howls—were absorbed by streaks of silver light. The void between sea and sky snapped shut as giants struggled in the mouth of the closing seam. The sky brightened a shade, and Joel-Andrew cast forth a rope of seasons. The beauty of winter twisted happily in a woven strand containing summer, spring, and autumn.
August Starling answered with ice, and it was clear that August Starling was as exhausted—or perhaps more exhausted—than Joel-Andrew. Ice cloaked the Strait where whales broke through a layer of salt ice in order to breathe. Icebergs bumped the shore, and ice fell into the darkness covering the parade. When The Parsonage emerged with yet another load of refugees, it moved ponderously beneath a great weight of ice. Ice fell upon Joel-Andrew, and his face turned into a mask of frost. He was forced to answer, forced to take his best shot.
“There is eternity, and there is life,” Joel-Andrew whispered to Agatha, but he kept his eyes locked on August Starling. “Eternity can be just lovely. It is a little like life, but with more peaks and chasms.” Joel-Andrew brought forth rack after rack of warm breezes. The breezes struck the ice and cooled. “On the other hand, you are a woman who never had a chance at life. If you could live once more, would you choose that?”
Agatha recalls that there was really no decision to be made. Yes, she would choose life. She recalls that she nodded dumbly.
“O Lord,” Joel-Andrew prayed, “may thy humble servant Agatha once more enter unto Your beautiful world.” Joel-Andrew’s voice was hoarse, his frame shaken beneath ice and the blows of ice. His voice staggered with fatigue. Agatha heard him, and August Starling heard him; but, after all, they were close enough to Joel-Andrew, and they could hear the slightest whisper.
Agatha recalls the surge of heavenly light. She recalls the entry of life, of resurrection. She recalls her gladness as her arm raised and she felt its weight. She recalls the sweet and stenchy air that first entered her lungs. Agatha stepped from the enormous ebony coffin, and Agatha was alive. It was then that August Starling stood in a pyre of flame and began to scream.
Starling’s form extended, became taller, thinner, like a wisp of his own fire. The elegant suit fell away as flesh melted beneath flame. In moments, it seemed, only moments, a dry and clacking skeleton stood screaming in the flame. Then the skeleton became etched with blue fire, like a blueprint of death standing before its own darkness. The skeleton gradually lowered, began to crumble, and the crumbles screamed. The crumbles turned to dust, so that in moments August Starling was only a pile of dust lying before darkness. The dust screamed, and it uttered fragmentary and tiny screams as it was carried away before a flower-scented wind.
Saturating darkness turned deep gray, then lighter gray, as people escaped under their own power. It was quite a show, and the tourists were confused because they did not know if what they experienced was part of the planned program. As darkness turned to pale gray, the broken corpse of the spider dangled across the equally broken rack of web and sky. A gleam of sunlight touched the spider, and the hulk melted into steam. Confusion remained rife, but it appeared that, except for one enormous headache, and one set of badly bruised knuckles, no serious injuries were sustained. The headache belonged to the elephant, which had to be pulled back to this world with smelling salts. The knuckles belonged to the Irish cop, who had been forced to coldcock the elephant before it went on a frightened rampage.
Joel-Andrew knelt in a field of broken flowers. He began to give thanks to the Lord. His mouth moved, whispered, and while he did not mean to speak privately, his fatigue was too great. He tipped
forward, then caught himself and rested on all fours.
Around the wreck of the parade, Chinese formed a frightened mob, while beside them the dragon gave tranquil snorts. Townspeople stood before The Fisherman’s Café, and tourists huddled everywhere. Obed and The Sailor and the morose cop stood with the Chinese. Gerald dusted his hands, then announced he was headed for City Hall. With Starling defeated, Gerald looked forward to a jail delivery of federal cops. He looked forward to running every single one of them out of town. The Victorians stood on the huge lot of the broken and wounded Parsonage. Kune reigned in the all-seeing tower. The Victorians looked toward Joel-Andrew, and then they knelt in Presbyterian prayer. It was then the angels made their move, and Samuel made his.
Above the parade, high up there on the bluff beneath the celestial light of angels, shadowy figures took distinct forms as band after band and tribe after tribe of Indians rose in silence. They wore war paint, carried banners; and their horses—trained to battle—snorted. Every local tribe was represented, and there were visitors from the far outskirts of Seattle. Lances sported scalp locks; spears were adangle with feathers. The Indians looked toward the Strait, where a thousand war canoes glowed black and crimson, yellow and green. Banners flew from the Strait, banners flew from the bluff; while at the other end of the street—some two thousand yards away—and with stately calm, Samuel sat astride the dark horse Wesley—Samuel flanked by the ministerial association—Samuel backed by half the Tlingits and Haidas and Shimsians of north Seattle. The dragon puffed smoke. Oriental chatter welled and was punctuated with Oriental fear.
Because, what the Chinese did not know, and nobody else knew either, was that Samuel had not been fooling when he said there was a great awakening in the countryside. The Indians came to town in order to contain the original curse; the curse which said the sea would rise. If the curse were not contained, the sea would spread as far as a man could go in a day and a half. The ministerial association and Samuel formed ranks at the far end of Main Street. They formed other ranks on top of the bluff.
“O Lord,” Joel-Andrew prayed, “there really is a peace that passes all understanding, and I thank You for it.” Joel-Andrew’s eyes were transcendent, although he breathed heavily, and remained on all fours.
The sky lighted with heavenly flame. Then came the whisper of gigantic wings as angels floated gently from the heavens. Bare-branched trees on the lot of The Parsonage burst into foliage and fruit. Grass turned from winter brown to a rush of spring green. Light became so concentrated that no one could look directly, but a few old-timers knew enough to turn their gaze aside and look from the corners of their eyes. They report that each angel took the hands of two Victorians, then rose skyward; and the Victorians sang with the unbounded joy of freedom. In an anthem of praise, Janie’s voice rose in a firm contralto beside the raspy bass of her bouncer. Janie’s red hair and purple gown looked like gorgeous ornaments against the purity of the angel’s white gown. Other angels floated down silently; then the angels’ wingbeats began as they rose, and flower-scented winds washed over the great crowd. Prayerful songs of joy rose from Victorian lips as angels stepped skyward on heaven-bound wings. The Victorians at last were free from the shabby bonds of harlotry, the shabbier bonds of meaningless duty. Their voices congregated in a grand doxology above the voices of departing cherubs, as the entire heavenly body disappeared through the rose window that now overflooded the sky. When we looked around us, the only ghosts left were Gerald and the morose cop and Maggie and The Sailor.
And we knew, all of us—at least all who cared—knew that Joel-Andrew may or may not have brought salvation to Point Vestal, but he certainly brought it to the Victorians. The entire town, The Parsonage, the tourists, even the surrounding tribes of Indians stood silent beneath the great rose window and watched Joel-Andrew’s tired figure as he sank back on his heels and rested.
“Dad blast it anyway, Tammy,” a chubby and aging tourist said to his chubby and aging wife. “I didn’t see any resurrection, and now even the ghosts are gone.” The tourist was affluent, his pockets stuffed with indulgences, and he wore casual clothing which carried all the correct labels. The tourist turned to his colleagues. “Mark you, I’ve been in one or another business all my life,” he said, “and so I sure don’t mind when folks try to make a buck.” The tourist looked at the shattered parade, at the pharmaceutical company still cloaked with the limp figure of the blimp. “But when folks try to make a buck,” the tourist said, “I expect some kind of show for my money. This is a Victorian con.” He looked at the crowd of people from Point Vestal, his look not kindly. “This is just one more tourist trap,” he said to the other tourists. To his wife he said, “C’mon, Tammy, we’re taking our business somewhere else.”
Murmurs of “Victorian con” and “tourist trap” ran through the largest congregation of rich tourists Point Vestal had ever seen. Murmurs of “lousy organization” mixed with querulous questions about the disappearance of ghosts, the disappearance of August Starling. Words such as “flimflam” and “overpriced” mingled with words such as “too commercialized.” In only moments, the entire crowd of tourists sprinted to cars and motor homes and motorcycles. The road leading out of town rapidly filled with vehicles, as drivers honked in disgust.
Residents of Point Vestal stood before and beside The Fisherman’s Café, or on the beach and by the Strait which laps at the back of The Fisherman’s Café. They looked at each other, looked at blossoming store windows now crowded with unsalable merchandise. They looked at ebony storefronts, at embroidered silk hankies that read “Farewell.” Our people were momentarily confused, for they could not figure out what had happened—or why it had happened—or who was to blame. They muttered and murmured and buzzed. They consulted. Stronger members supported others whose knees became weak. Our people watched the departing automobiles, the diminishing mob of disgusted tourists. It seemed for a moment there would be a town meeting. And then, of course, someone analyzed the situation and arrived at a conclusion.
No one knows who actually threw the first stone. Since it had to be someone without sin, we assume it was one of the Mothers Against Transgression and Sensuality. We do know that the first stone made little difference. The throw was tentative, the stone arcing blackly beneath a sunlit winter sky to fall among crushed flowers and roll to a halt three or four feet in front of Joel-Andrew. Joel-Andrew watched it, and at first he was puzzled. Then his face crossed with sadness.
“Get on it!” the TV anchor shrilled to her cameraman. “Stay on the target. This is classic footage.” The TV anchor took a couple of deep breaths, then spoke rapidly into her mike. “The network, in an unprecedented piece of investigative journalism, brings you to the small town of Point Vestal where citizens engage in an ancient religious rite.” The news anchor yammered, and, because she yammered, our people felt obligated to throw. From his third-floor perch in a building, Jerome tried to countermand the journalistic order, but stones arced beneath sunlight. From the all-seeing tower, Kune screamed, and from the far distance Samuel goaded his dark horse into a dead run. Gerald came from the basement of City Hall, as Obed and The Sailor and the morose cop broke from the mob of Chinese. All of them discovered that they shared a single problem.
It does not take very long to stone a man to death, not if you have enough stones and enough people throwing.
Joel-Andrew attempted to stand. His voice shook, but at least it was no longer a whisper. “Lord,” he said, “they are hurt and confused. They are only making a mistake . . .” And then his teeth shattered as a rock cracked against his mouth. Joel-Andrew was silenced. Blood flowed from his lips as he forced himself to his feet. A sharp stone glanced from his forehead, and a second and sharper one pierced his right eye. His head fell forward as he clasped his eye, and a heavy stone caught him in the groin. Bones in his hand cracked and broke as he covered his face, and then one hand fell away as a forearm went limp. The deathblow was probably a rounded rock, weighty as a ball-peen hammer
, that struck him in the temple. He did not fall immediately.
Loggers and fishermen showed the power of their arms. Rocks with flat trajectories smashed against Joel-Andrew’s knees, and rocks with gleaming quartz crystals divided his ribs. It was a not a merciful death, but at least it was quick.
Patriotic cries came from the Martha Washington Brigade. The Loyal Order of Beagles woofed and howled. The Grand Army of the Republic raised rebel yells, while Mothers Against Transgression and Sensuality huffed and puffed as they threw. Older citizens of Point Vestal passed rocks to stronger and younger men. Permissive parents pressed rocks into the hands of their children.
Joel-Andrew crumpled amid a rain of rock deadly as shrapnel, and the rocks continued to fall although cats jumped screaming from ledges with claws bared; although Obed charged fearless toward the mayor and city council, who competed for the largest number of hits. The rocks rained down, and they drove to the ground the charging figures of The Sailor and the morose cop and the Irish cop. Gerald arrived only a second before Samuel, plus the ministerial association came at full gallop. Gerald and Samuel pushed the mob apart. The TV anchor yammered, while proud citizens of Point Vestal faced the cameras and yelled affectionate words to their mothers. Point Vestal flashed the V for victory sign, and Point Vestal proclaimed that it was Number One, Numero Uno. No one paid the least attention when the front of Janie’s Tavern crashed forward, and Maggie stepped forth to brood silently and darkly on the scene.
And to us, who must record this, a sorry scene it was. Joel-Andrew’s sandals were worn, his clerical collar frayed. His sandy hair with streaks of gray was clotted with blood. His face looked like a shocked child as Kune knelt above him and felt for a pulse. Kune’s physician hands touched gently, but Kune’s eyes could not hold the physician’s objectivity. His washed yellow eyes held tears as he motioned Samuel toward him. Kune turned Joel-Andrew on his back, arranged Joel-Andrew’s hands, and closed Joel-Andrew’s broken eyes. Kune looked at the mob, and his own eyes held contempt.
The Off Season Page 26